January 1st…“WHAT WAS A PRACTICE OF HEALTHFUL LIVING, FOR YOUR GRANDMOTHER, IN THE OLD DAYS OF FARM FAMILY LIFE OF NORTH CENTRAL IOWA?”

POEM – “That Fair Clean Air”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Grandma loved clean air, And so she’d share,

Big helpings with family dear.

Cause that old farm house, She’d say to spouse,

Could hold bad germs, She’d fear.

So, every day, I’ll bet she’d say, “It’s time to air out the house!”,

Both windows and doors, On both farm floors,

Thrown open for germs to be doused!!!

Be it winter or spring, You could hear wind sing,

As it washed that farm house air clean.

The air may’ve been frigid, But her duty was rigid,

To germs she was downright mean!

Oh sure, she’d scrub, And rub a dub dub,

Every surface that was touched by ‘man’,

But any lingering harm, In that house on farm,

Was blown out by the wind like a fan!

For there was a time, In a different clime,

When Amanda caught a disease.

Tuberculosis was her plight,

Transferred by a possible sneeze.

She suffered so, And she had to go,

Far away from the ones she did cherish,

For if she’d stayed, They’d soon’ve displayed,

Her sickness and possibly perish.

When she finally healed, I’m sure she squealed,

With delight to be once again HOME!

So that fair clean air, Would always be there,

Refreshing all under that dome!

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

The genesis of this poem is based on stories that my mother told me of how her mother, Amanda Rogness Sletten, would open all the windows and doors of their farm home, near Scarville, Iowa, daily.  Rain or shine, snow or drought, that farm house was opened for fresh air to ‘chase the germs out’.   Especially after Amanda had to suffer the ravages, and quarantine, of tuberculosis for almost two years (that she had to be far away from her children and husband in order to rest and heal).   As of this writing, in April of 2020, I find it interesting that, as our nation deals with the corona virus, we, too, would like to get some fresh air in our lives to heal and once again be whole and healthy.    So surmises this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

Dear Friends and Readers of Norwegian Farmer’s Son,

For those of you not on Facebook, I recently completed Volume One of my gentle adventures of growing up in southern Minnesota and then later on in Washington State.  I call these my
“gentle adventures” for the fact that I’m just a plain old everyday type person and no one of significance.  Besides, I’ve teased folks, over the years, that I am the antithesis of the 60’s rock song in that I was “born to be MILD, not wild!” 😉

For those of you who may have just stumbled on to my blog, the premise of my short stories and poems is built on the theoretical gathering of my children and grandchildren around me.  Each day of the year, they would ask me a different question about life in general, or how a certain event transpired in my life.  I then answer each question with either a short story or a poem.   So, as of today, there are 365 chapters for you all to browse through and enjoy.

With tax season approaching, I will be taking a sabbatical from writing and focus on getting taxes done.  Then, I hope to begin a Volume Two of my writings.   The next  “calendar-based” diary/autobiography will be composed of about three months of more questions and answers and then I will delve into my hundreds of poems and song lyrics that I’ve created over the years.   These poetical musings will mirror life itself, in that some will be silly, some serious and others thought provoking.   Hope you are able to stop by, from time to time, to enjoy my creations.

See you all in a month or two.  Until then, Lord bless! ><>

N. Elliott Noorlun……….the Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

December 31st…“AS A LITTLE BOY, ON YOUR FARM, HOW DID YOU SWING INTO THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS?”………in a SWING, of course! 😉

POEM – “The Best Way To Fly”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

Any time of the year, Be it winter or spring,

The best way to fly, Was on our tire swing.

A gift to our dad, From old Uncle Doren,

If flew for millions, Of miles unworn.

First, thousands of miles, On Uncle’s plane,

But when its use, Began to wane,

Dad cut out a seat, Ropes o’er the tree,

For all of us kids, To experience glee.

My sister, Rosie, First placed me aboard,

The magical ship, On which I soared,

To heights that seemed, To touch the sky,

This farmer’s son, Sure could fly!!! 😉

December 30th…“WAS GETTING FROM YOUR FARM TO SCHOOL DIFFICULT IN THOSE MINNESOTA WINTERS?”

Trying to rouse a little school boy from his warm cocoon of thick quilts was no easy task for our dear mother back in our frigid Minnesota winter mornings. It was SO cold in our unheated upstairs bedrooms, that the single-pane, multi-paneled glass window of my upstairs bedroom was encrusted on the inside with frost.  There was so much frost, I could scratch my initials in the layers of frozen morning brrrrrrrr! One thing for sure, once I DID force my boy body out of bed and into the arctic abyss of my icy bedroom, I could easily beat any speed record in getting dressed so as to minimize the goose pimples that began to emanate and rise up all over my body from the atmospheric shock, even with my winter long-johns on. With clothing now covering my goose-pimpled corpuscles, I looked back, longingly, at the cozy repose of my now cooling bed……as if saying, “See ya tonight, cozy quilts!” 😉

With Mom’s bountiful breakfast in my tummy, and my body bundled to face the elements of winter, the goal of my little sister and I was to head outdoors to wait and catch the school bus that passed our farm each day on its way to Kiester Public School in our dear hometown of Kiester, Minnesota. With the freeze, thaw, freeze, thaw cycle of life in winter, long icicles would form and hang from the roof edges of most of the buildings around our yard. On the way out to the gravel road, I’d sometimes stop by a lower building roof-line and snap off an ‘icicle lollipop’ to suck on while waiting for that long, metal school ‘banana’ to arrive. Being the ruff n tuff little cream puff I was , I didn’t care that the water that made up that ‘Popsicle’ contained dust and bird doo-doo from the nasty roofs.

Although our father, Russell, spoke of himself walking three miles to his school in winter, we had the modern pleasure of a classic yellow school bus chariot to take my sister and I to our elementary school.

The out-going lady who was the charioteer of our powerful school bus was quite a personality all her own. Marie Meyer was her name, and I readily admired and enjoyed her ‘larger than life’ persona.

Marie had the knack to make a little schoolboy, like myself, feel welcome and safe on her bus. On the other hand, Marie also had the innate personal power to scowl down a raucous High School bully and reduce him to a quivering puddle of “Jello” if he had the unmitigated gall to act disrespectfully to her within her yellow-metaled domain of student transportation. Marie’s husband, Manville Meyer, was co-owner of the fleet of buses that serviced, not only our school district, but any community-wide need for transportation.

Daily, as a kid, I never had to pay a nickel for a rock-n-rollin’ ride to school that had all the ear-markings of a wild and woolly carnival attraction. This day was to be no exception. Our Minnesota countryside, that morning, was enveloped in a full out blizzard. Blowing snow, across the graveled roads, made for some large snowdrifts that required Marie to bulldoze her bus through them in order for her to, eventually, deliver us young riders to Kiester and the pending educational process of school. Within the whiteness of winter, those massive dual tires on the back of Marie’s bus sported impressive link chains for better traction in this winter wonderland. I can still see us rolling along in the blizzard that morning. We were bouncing along the rough roads southwest of Kiester when Marie saw a massive snowdrift across the roadway, almost fully blocking our path and about three feet or more high. Marie got on the “public address” speaker of the bus and told us, “HANG ON KIDS!! BIG SNOWDRIFT AHEAD!!!”

We all became cheerleaders as Marie revved up that International Harvester school bus engine. With her ‘pedal to the metal’, Marie launched that beast of a bus at full speed as it plowed into the mighty snowdrift.   Like a war between yellow and white, you could hear the snowdrift drag against the bus belly beneath us as those chained, rear dual tires ground and growled at trying to chew up and conquer that snowdrift. But, ‘the white snow tentacles” won out that morning and our bus was high-centered in that capturing snow. We were stuck. Usually, our Marie was the winner against those mini-mountains of white, but not today, the ‘mother of all snowdrifts’ had won. Even our bus snow-chains were no match against that thick, arresting, white mass of frozen water crystals beneath our bus.

Thanks to modern technology, in the1960’s, of CB (Citizen’s Band) radios, Marie had a Plan B already in operation. She pressed the talk button on the radio and called into the bus barn (shop) in Kiester to let them know we were stuck. Plan B called for another bus to come towards us from the south. For those too young to know, there were no street signs in the farming regions, back in those days, so, Marie just radioed to her dispatcher the family name of the nearest farm to our place of being stuck. Being a small community, everyone knew where everyone else’s farm was, so it was easy for our rescuers to find this stranded bus of ours!

In that sweet positivity of youth, my fellow bus riders, and myself, saw this as more of a happy adventure than anything remotely dangerous. Besides, we were having more fun being stuck in a snowstorm than being in an old boring schoolroom any day! 😉

Our blizzard-induced euphoria was gently brought back to reality as we could, in the distant haze of the snowstorm, see our rescue bus making its approach along the country roads towards us. Marie, like a kindly army general, gave us, her little troopers, the command to disembark and jump into the snowdrifts from her stranded, yellow troop carrier and make our way over and into the rescue bus. With his bus heater running full blast, our rescue driver (Marie’s husband, Manville) welcomed us into the warm comfort of his bus for the rest of the ride to school. Those blustery, blizzard blowing breezes were actually one heck of a fun adventure for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son

December 29th…“SHARE SOME POSITIVE ATTRIBUTES REGARDING YOUR LITTLE SISTER.”

POEM – “Candi Wings”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

You may not have noticed, Yet they are there,

The angel wings, My sister does wear.

For since her youth, Heart tender and rare,

You’ll see her giving love, And offering care.

With agape love, Beyond her own,

Though body be weary, And tired prone,

With compassion & memory, Her energies strive,

To celebrate birthdays, Whether ninety or five.

With quiet resolve, She has often stood,

In defense of those, Who knew she would,

Come to their aid, Sharing love and home,

Refuge and peace, No more need they roam.

“Candi”, Sweet is my sister’s name,

An angel on earth, In human frame.

December 28th…“WHILE ATTENDING KIESTER, MINNESOTA PUBLIC SCHOOL, DID YOU TRY TO LEARN AN INSTRUMENT FOR THEIR BAND?”

POEM – “My Trombone, Was A Twilight Zone”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

It likely happened, When they’d pass,

I’d see that sparkling, Flashing brass,

And want one for, My very own,

A golden sounding, Slide trombone.

In my dreams, I’d be the best,

With handsome horn, And sharply dressed,

To follow in, My sister’s ways,

As a band member in, Her high school days.

So timidly, I knocked on the door,

Of our great educator, Who knew the score,

Of many a show, And many a song,

Under his care, I just couldn’t go wrong.

Mr. Glende, Took me aside,

And issued me horn, That could play and slide.

He said, “The more you practice, The more you play”,

“Will make me smile, And wanna say YAY!”

At first, I blew, That horn every day,

It’d even make cows, Look up from their hay,

But then, I’d forget, Or be too busy,

Or make up excuse, That it made me dizzy.

So when it came time, For lesson in town,

Poor Mr. Glende, Could only frown.

For the sorry excuse, For notes from my horn,

Just brought me to shame, And well-deserved scorn.

My trombone became, Like a twilight zone, To the point I was scared to play,

For fear of what, Mr. Glende would say, As I came to my lesson day.

“It’s obvious, Elliott, You’ve not found the time”,

“To make your trombone, Sound sublime”.

“Thank you for trying, Now have a good day,”

Said dear Mr. Glende, As I went my way.

So if there is something, That challenges you,

Remember that there is, A payment due.

“Practice makes perfect”, And every day,

You’ll get closer to beauty, In every way.

December 27th…“TELL US ABOUT THE 25TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY OF YOUR PARENTS THERE ON YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA.”

Time-worn love letters from our handsome father, Russell, given in confidence to our cherished mother, Clarice, had been protected in the hallowed halls of Mom’s heart for over 70 years. Now, although brittle they were with time’s passage, those lines of love remained still tender in their power to move our mother’s emotions as she relayed their contents to us in her latter days.

Back in my youthful years on our farm, near Kiester, Minnesota, I can recall rummaging through the angled, pitched ceiling of an upstairs closet and finding these epistles of admiration and courtship that eventually drew our parents to the church altar on June 21st of 1941.

With a world around them in absolute turmoil, and on the verge of the global conflict of World War II, these letters, and their contents, had to have given our mother the assurance that love would conquer all. In my pre-teen archaeological find that day, I can still see that big bundle of love letters (still in their envelopes), now turning amber with the passage of years and being held together by a couple large rubber bands. Curiosity ‘killing the cat’, I snatched up my find and scampered down the creaking wooden stairs to find our mother fixing dinner (which is what Midwest folk call the midday meal) for our farmer dad in our quaint kitchen.

“Say Mom, look what I found upstairs in the closet. What are these? They seem to have your name on the envelopes.” Mom’s eyes lit up as if I had just discovered the Hope Diamond, or something of similar value. “Ohhh my goodness!” she said, “Those are letters from your dad to me and they’re for my eyes only. Please put them back in the attic closet where you found them.” In acknowledging obedience, I honored mother and placed those romantic writings safely back where they rightfully belonged.

A quarter of a century of marriage had passed for those two Norwegian parents of ours, and the time is now June of 1966. Our good Lord had blessed our parents with four healthy children, 120 acres of bountiful Minnesota farmland, their first granddaughter, and a myriad of other joys that they were truly thankful for. To fete the Silver Wedding Anniversary of our parents, our eldest sister, Rosemary, along with our brother’s new wife, Lynn, had conceived and carried out this gala gathering and had called the clan from near and far to come celebrate the Silver Wedding Anniversary of Russell and Clarice Noorlun.

Thanks to our expansive farm acreage, we had plenty of parking for cars of all the many family and friends that gathered on that perfect June day to help our folks celebrate.

Now, Norwegians are known for their teasing humor, and to have a platform for that fun stuff, there was created a mythical married couple in Norwegian joke books called “Ole & Lena”. Very likely, amongst the men in attendance at our farm that day, this joke may have been shared for a laugh, ……..Lars asks Ole, “Vat yew gonna dew tew celebrate yer Vedding Anniversay vit Lena? Mehbee go out und kill a shicken fer Supper?” Ole responds by saying, “Nay, nay, I don’t tink so…A shicken shooodn’t hafta soofer fer vat happened 25 yeers agoo!!” 😉

Tucked away, in my little boy gene pool baggage compartment, were some of my odoriferous, oinkeristic ornery genes. For some reason, I surmise that I inherited my stinkerisms from my paternal grandmother, Marie Tollefson Noorlun.  She, unknowingly, may have dealt them to me as my ‘cards of life’ were shuffled.   From stories I heard, she could be a real stinker, herself. Those audacious attributes of mine chose to come to the surface there on our parent’s Silver Wedding Anniversary. Maybe it was too many adults everywhere in the house or yard, or, maybe there weren’t very many kids my age to play with that day; but whatever the extenuating circumstances, social conditions were just too much for this mini-hermit and I decided to vacate the house and farmyard vicinity in lieu of some reclusive enjoyment down at Brush Creek. Away I went to the creek. While getting knee deep in water and mud, I had fun chasing tadpoles and crawdads in the creek while getting my legs thoroughly mud-plastered along the way.

From down in the creek bottom, I could hear car tires coming my way and rumbling against the gravel road above me on the bridge over Brush Creek. The car stopped and shut off its engine. It was my elder sister, Rosemary.  Rosie leaned over the bridge railing and called to me in the creek waters below, “Heyyy Elliott!! Mom and Dad want all us kids to be at the house for a family photo together. Come home, clean up, change clothes and get ready for that photograph.” It could have been the bossy authoritarian tone of her voice, but my twelve year old ornery self replied, “Heck no!! I don’t wanna!!! I’m havin’ fun down here and there’s no way I’m gonna go to all that fuss for a silly photograph!” Ohhh, myyy, goodness!! My big sister went classically ballistic from her bellowing bridge barrages against me!! Whooodawgies was she as mad as a wet hen when I flat refused!!! She stormed over to her car, fired up the engine and spun so much gravel with her tires that some of it flew over the bridge’s edge and down to the creek waters near me. Needless to say, I was worth less than two loogies in a spittoon in my sister’s eyes for quite some time after that.

Aside from my act of selfish immaturity, after that wonderful day of their Silver Anniversary celebration came to an end, our dear parents went on to experience another thirteen years and eight months together until Dad surrendered to pancreatic cancer and left us for Heaven’s Shores in February of 1980. Russell and Clarice didn’t have a perfect marriage; they experienced their highs and lows like every married couple. But, what they DID have has always stayed with me……they never gave up on each other!!! I see their long marriage summed up in a wise saying that goes like this, “A perfect marriage is just two IMperfect people that refuse to give up on each other”. Another muse on the subject of long marriage comes from the New Testament in Ephesians Chapter 5 and Verse 25…..“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her” I am so grateful for our parents says this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

December 26th…“ON YOUR FARM, IN MINNESOTA, AT WHAT AGE DID YOU START TO REALIZE THAT LIFE COULD BE DANGEROUS?”

POEM – “Pobody’s Nerfect”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Pobody’s Nerfect, Especially me!

Been this way, Since I’d say three.

It’s a minor miracle, That I’m still here,

Considering the courses, I did steer.

There were many times, Back on the farm,

When my given name, Should’ve been “Harm”.

You’d be amazed, At the stunts I’d pull,

Like blood-poisoned feet, Or shootin’ the bull.

Now the bull t’weren’t happy, With what I did,

You see, I was a mean, Widdo kid.

Had my BB rifle, Aimed just right,

In a place that made bull, Wanna fight!

If it weren’t for the solid, Fence back home,

I wouldn’t be here, A writin’ this poem.

Then there’s the mower, With which I played tag,

Except my fingers, It decided to snag.

I’ve fallen from haymows, And cracked my head,

It’s amazin’ that this kid, Ain’t yet DEAD!

Once while tripping, Over my toes,

I went the way, That gravity goes.

Twas in the school gymnasium,

That I busted wide, my cranium…..(just a figure of speech, folks)

The Doc said, “One more blow like that”,

“Will make him less, Than dog or cat!”.

So just be thankful, You’re as good as you are,

Cause I’m amazed, I’ve got this far!!! 😉

December 19th…“DID YOUR FARM, NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA, HAVE ANY ANIMAL SMELLS?”

POEM – “The Smell Of Money, Sonny!”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

We’d sometimes pile, In the car to go, Visit family in yonder city.

For most of the day, We’d chat and play, Then have to go home, What a pity.

For our fine dairy herd, Had milk that would curd, A sight that just wouldn’t be pretty,

So with handshakes n kisses, To mr.’s and mrs.’s, We’d head home to tend cow n kitty.

So to the home place, Our car’s merry pace, Would cause gravel clouds to billow.

We’d gaze out the window, Till eyelids grew heavy, Then use Mommy’s chest for our pillow.

As our red-n-white Chevy,  Delivered the bevy, Of Noorluns back to our yard,

I’d crawl out car door, And smell the odor, That my nostrils found to be hard.

The question this lad, Had for my dad, Was one that was logic, Do tell.

What in the world, Had just unfurled? “Daddy, what is that smell!!!???”

With my hair he would fuss, This Dad they called, “Russ”, He’d smile at this sonny, So funny,

“It’s a dairy farm, Son, Little son of a gun!” To ME, that’s the SMELL OF MONEY!” 

December 18th…“WAS THERE A NAME FOR THE GROUP OF TREES THAT WRAPPED AROUND MOST OF YOUR FARM NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “Amongst Her Wooded Arms”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

Sheltered amongst, Her wooded arms,

Our windbreak took the brunt,

Of wind, sleet, snow and storm,

From every weather front.

As a mother’s strong will, To nurture, protect,

So did every strong tree from its rise,

Always there to give comfort, To our family,

No matter the storm or its size.

Like two giant arms, Of many a wood,

A bulwark strong, Against dark hood,

Of clouded sky, In any clime,

Our home was sheltered, From the crime,

That nature’s wrath, Would often hurl,

While safely in, Our beds we’d curl.

Just like a mother, And for our sake,

We gave God thanks, For our windbreak!