April 6th…“HAVE YOU EVER GONE HUNTING WITH A MEMBER OF YOUR FAMILY?”

 

 

Handsome, Hero, Hot Rodder….and in this case Hunter….those attributes, all rolled into one, made up my big brother, Lowell!!  Being 11 years older than myself, big brother was actually more like a young father to me in my growing up days on our farm in southern Minnesota.  Lowell invested time in my young life and made me to feel special whenever I had any opportunity to be with him.  One of those adventures would be hunting pigeons.

 

 

On a sunny Summer afternoon at our farm near Kiester, Minnesota, Lowell came home from shopping at “Gambles Hardware Store” there in our town.  The year was 1964 and I was a mere 10 years of age at the time.  Brother found me upstairs in sister Rosemary’s bedroom.  With one arm behind him, he approached me.  Beneath that dark, wavy hair of his were two eyes that set to twinkling and and below them was a sly smile emerging from his face.  There was something “up his sleeve” and I couldn’t WAIT to find out what it was.  With a swing of his arm, he brought something to the front that he was hiding behind his back.  It was a sparkling, brand new “DAISY” BB air rifle!!!!!   My eyes popped open as wide as saucers and the “Oooooo’s and Ahhhhh’s” started spilling forth from my little boy lips!!

At that moment, for me to muse upon the notion that he thought I was mature enough to now experience the wonder of learning respect for and firing a BB rifle, …….well, the thrill of it was almost more than this little farm boy could stand!!! 😉  Next came a teaching time with brother so he could inculcate within me the safety aspects of properly handling a firearm.  When Lowell felt I had gleaned enough firearm knowledge, he shared a thrilling idea with me.  We two could have some guy-type fun and actually do a service for our area farmers in getting rid of pigeons from their haymows (which is an attic storage above the barn that holds alfalfa to feed the animals and also yellow straw for bedding the animals.)

Brother Lowell enlightened me to the fact that the pigeon population was prolific in our part of the State and that those gazillion pigeons would usually find ways to get into the  haymows of the local barns to roost (make a nest to live).  With their large bodies, the birds would see “daylight” via the glass windows and then fly INTO those barn windows and break them in their vain attempt to get out of the barn.  Not only were those windows costly (and dangerously high) for the farmers to replace, but without windows in place, rainstorms would easily blow its water inside the haymow.   The resulting wet hay would then begin to rot from the moisture.  That rotting process created an internal heat inside the bales and could result in a fire called, spontaneous combustion.  If the farmer wasn’t aware of all this, his barn could burn down and all his animals would be destroyed in the fire.

 

 

Once having taken up residence in a barn, those pesky pigeons would then proceed to “make deposits” of bird goo on the hay bales that were used to feed the livestock.  You can surmise that any cow, in her right mind, does NOT want to eat anything with pigeon pucky all over it.  As brother theorized, he felt the local farmers would be thrilled to be rid of those pesky pigeon poopers.

 

Like any military engagement, my “Brigadier Brother” had a battle plan as to how we’d carry out the hunt of our pooping prey.  Each evening, during that Summer, we’d finish up the chores and milking of our dairy herd.  Now, the rest of the night was ours to go hunting those bottom blasting birds.  A magnetic flashlight was clicked onto the barrel of our “Daisy” BB rifle as we climbed into Lowell’s sleek 1957 Ford Fairlane.  As we rolled along those gravel roads to the next farm, Lowell shared how the magnetic flashlight would allow us to see our prey in the darkness of the barn’s haymow AND how the beam of light would temporarily blind the bird so that it held to it’s perch while we drew a bead on it as a target.

Big brother and I plinked away night after night, farm after farm.  For a couple of country boys, it was a kick in the shorts (slang for “good time”) and also served as some golden bonding moments between brothers, as well.  Each evening, after we two “Heap Big Great White Norwegian Hunters” cleared out a barn of pigeons, we’d gather the “kill” and toss the bodies onto the nearest manure piles which were common on most farms.

But then, one night, we encountered an “Alfred Hitchcock” moment.  Around dusk, that evening, Lowell’s handsome ’57 Ford was cruising past a dark, vacant, abandoned farm place.   The current owner of the property lived just up the gravel road a mile or so, so brother drove us over to the owner’s place to ask permission to shoot the pigeons in that old barn.  The new owner was glad for us to rid the barn of those birds, so we returned to that desolate farm yard as the last rays of sun were fading behind the treed windbreak.  Climbing out of Lowell’s car, we could sense that, in the waning light of dusk, that there was something very eeerie about this particular barn and the whole farmyard in general.  It was a palpable “dead” feeling without the presence of lights in the barn or any sign of life in that ghostly farmhouse, either; it was contrary to the like we’d been used to seeing at other family farms around us.  Even the windbreak of cottonwood trees that surrounded the farmyard seemed to give out a whispering warning as the labored wind filtered through their lonely branches.

Our father’s battery-operated railroad lantern was to be used for basic light in the upper reaches of this spooky structure that once was home to a thriving family of animals.  With the last vestiges of daylight disappearing, we began the ascent of the wooden ladder into the blackened haymow, but we didn’t bother turning the lantern ON till we had reached the level of the haymow itself.  The lantern was cylindrical in nature and had a wire guardrail around the bare bulbs that jutted out from the lantern housing.  With the grasping of each rung of the haymow ladder, we could hear that THIS particular barn attic was “alive” with sounds that denoted something was hidden in that ominous darkness.  We perceived sounds that were unnatural to what we had been used to in other barns of our area.

 

 

Within seconds of igniting that lantern light, we now knew full well what those strange sounds were……….we were immediately assaulted by dozens of Starlings and other birds that went completely berserk at the intrusive light that had invaded their dark domain.  Birds were all over that light and all over us as they landed on our shoulders and heads; pecking at us and the lights we were using.  Valiantly, we attempted to ignore them and take rifle aim on the pigeons in the upper rafter level, but the anguishing harassment of this bird population was too over-powering.  With disgust, Lowell hollered, “Let’s get the HECK OUTTA HERE!!!”  Down the ladder we went, in all haste, as the throng of attackers followed our descent.  They were like tiny machine gunners with the “rat a tat a tat” pecking.  When we finally made it outside of the barn and back to Lowell’s car, only then, did the fearless, feathered mini-falcons claim victory and returned to their castle which was that dead haymow, in that dead barn, on that dead farm!!

Other than that haunting occasion, that Summer, all together, this brotherly dynamic duo bagged over 150 pigeons.  And, in the process, made many a local farmer happy to have those pesky pooper pigeons out of his barn so that his cows could once again have clean alfalfa hay to eat and enjoy.  Mange Takk (many thanks) to my dear brother, Lowell, for being a grand adventurer with this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

 

 

 

April 5th…“DID YOU EVER FEEL A HATRED FOR ANOTHER PERSON?”

Hate is a word imbued with power and fraught with potential negativity if implemented in my life within the context of selfish pride, rather than a holy, righteous indignation.

I readily admit that I have sadly been guilty of hatred for individuals in my life and those occasions have stemmed from my own, self-centered pride.

As Christians, we see that the Holy Scripture is replete with directives from the Lord to love even our enemies and the only time hatred is allowed is when our God, Himself, shows a righteous hatred for sin, such as in Psalms 139:22 which speaks of a “perfect hatred”.  Or, when Jesus chased out the money changers from the Temple.  Those were times of righteous indignation against those who stained the sacred holiness of the Temple with their selfish encroachments and deeds of evil.

From the time of my childhood, I have mused upon those whom I  have chosen to hate, and, as I ponder upon each incident, I have to attribute my hatred to having been based on my rampant immaturity, rather than “turning the other cheek ” and “going the extra mile” to show God’s love as Jesus would have me to do.   Fathom this, Jesus, being the Perfect Lamb and Essence of Innocence, chose to take attacks against His person without retaliation.   So also should I have done so in my own life.

It intrigues me, as I ponder this issue, how that those who intentionally wound me with mean words or deeds are the VERY ONES that I am supposed to love even MORE!!!  It’s so easy to care about and show love to those who are easy to love, such as family and friends.  Again the Spirit of God takes me to His Word and says, in Romans 5:10 (paraphrased) “While we were yet His enemies, Christ showed His love by giving His life on the Cross for us.”  I am consumed in my thoughts how, in my finite fleshly mind, that I would even THINK of allowing myself to be killed so that an enemy of mine could go free and have the best of everything………..yet, that’s exactly what Jesus did for me!!!  This is powerful, convicting and thought provoking as I deal with my feelings about some people.

Those times in my past, when I DID act out my hatred in word or deed, were times that I look back on with deep regret!!  Nothing was gained.  Feelings on both sides were further wounded and I was NOT a better Christian because of those sad episodes.

So, my dear ones, learn to do what is RIGHT in God’s sight and not from the frailties and failures of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 4th…“DID A CHILDHOOD IGNORANCE ALMOST LEAD TO DISASTER?”

POEM – “Beware of Super Can!!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Little did I realize, When I was but a boy,

That aerosol cans with added heat, Were really not a toy.

So when I took out, The trash to burn,

A powerful lesson, I soon would learn.

The chore of burning trash was mine,

So I’d head for the woods, And I THOUGHT would be fine,

To pour it all on, In one big heap,

Then light the match, And watch the flames creep,

Up the paper, wood, And all such junk,

But in there was hiding, A metal hunk.

The fire was going, Well and good,

So I moved away, From where I stood.

When halfway back,  To the house I heard,

An explosion that caused, My blood to curd!!

I cautiously crept, Back to the scene,

And viewed a spray can, Ugly and mean.

The heat from the fire, Caused it to EXPLODE!

His angels had moved me, To safety’s abode.

It’s best to ask questions, Of what you’re to do,

So you don’t become target, Of a giant KERBLEW!!! 😉

April 3rd…“AS A BOY, WHEN A STORM BLEW INTO YOUR AREA, WHAT MEASURES WERE TAKEN TO PROTECT YOUR FAMILY AND FARM BUILDINGS?”

Black, convoluted clouds churned in the angry sky above our cowering farmyard in southern Minnesota.  Indications pointed to the conclusion, in my little boy brain, that we were about to be targeted for the unleashing of another tumultuous thunderstorm.  Like a protective mother’s arms, the treed windbreak that wrapped around our home-place would take the first volleys of wind onslaught, but we, in respect of Heaven’s immense power, waited to see what the sky directly above us would generate.

The bulwark construction of our near century old farm house had withstood the soldier charge of many a storm through the decades and this scene was the precursor to yet another weather battle just ahead.  This particular evening, though, the marvels of God especially captured the absolute awe of this tiny Norwegian lad.

After the milking of our Holstein dairy herd was completed for that evening, our farmer dad made his way to the family kitchen now that our cows, and other livestock, were safely bed down for the night.  Now seemed an appropriate time to inquire of my father as to, “What are those pointy metal spears on top of the barn and our house for, Dad?”  With loud thunder sounding in the background, Dad answered, “Those are lightning rods, Son.  If a bolt of lightning flashes near any of our buildings or house, the rods actually attract the fire bolt and sends its charge of hot, electrical current through a metal cable and down into the ground.  That way, hopefully, the heat of the lightning’s blast won’t set our barn or other buildings on fire.”   YIKES!!!!!  Now my infantile imagination REALLY kicked in!

Later, when darkness had captured all the shadows from our world, God’s cannons in the sky opened up their salvos and began bludgeoning our bastion of home and farmland.  Independence Day fireworks could never hold a candle to the infinite power that detonated above our heads that fateful evening.  Deafening charges of exploding thunder, in lethal decibels, caused concussions that shook our humble domicile relentlessly.  Each blast from Heaven’s artillery resulted in causing the antique window panes of glass in my upstairs window to chatter and clank like the clattering, caliginous clamor of a cowardly knight in his loose suit of armor.  This type of titanic terror was just too much for this timid, tiny tike!

I rocketed down those stairs, from my second story bedroom, like a soldier in retreat and breathlessly entered the sanctuary of my parent’s bedroom.  With petrified earnest, my tiny boy voice begged Mother to allow me to find solace between her and Dad in their bed.  With an understanding heart, Mom lifted my tiny being over herself and placed me within the blanketed fortress of temporary protection between she and our strong progenitor.  Dad, on the other hand, was not as sympathetic of this mini-intruder, who, in his opinion, needed to learn to endure the havoc of Heaven that was a Summer normality for living in Minnesota.  But for me, on that shattering night, being in the sheltered and quilted protection of my mater and pater was thee best place to be for this frightened little Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 2nd…“AS A CHILD, WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?”

The magic may have been in the fecundity of the black onyx soils of Minnesota farmland versus the rocky peaks of our ancestral Norway.  Whatever magnetism it was, farming was in the blood of our father, grandfather and likely even our great grandfather that immigrated to this new land of America in the 1800’s.

Therefore, as a child, I TOO wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps as far as going into agriculture when I came of age.

One of my earliest recollections of baby life on our farm was when Mom would carry me down to the barn and let me down to the floor while she helped our father with the milking.  From my concrete level viewpoint, I could see Mom and Dad in the Milking Parlor working on emptying milk from the Surge Milker machines into milk cans and then cleaning equipment.  As my minuscule members wiggled at straw level, I would look down the long manger aisle in front of where our herd of Holstein dairy cows were eating their meal.  That aisle, in the center of our barn, seemed to be a mile long to this tiny tiker while I saw life from that very low perspective.  I’m guessing I must’ve been a year old or maybe a wee bit older, because I hadn’t yet mastered the art of walking upright.  Being the mini midget that I was, I really didn’t know what a cow was, except for the fact that these beasts nearby loomed ginormously in front of me and seemed to tower to the very rafters of that barn as they munched contentedly on their evening meal of tasty alfalfa.

As any impressionable little son looks to his father for emulation, I wanted to look like, act like and BE like a farmer in every way that I could.  I was always imitating Dad in every way imaginable…..even down to trying to blow my nose with one finger tight up against one nostril.   THAT was a messy life experience that usually brought howls of laughter from Dad as my nose “stuffings” dribbled off of cheek or chin and didn’t fly clear of my face with enough blow power.

I was surely one step closer to being a farmer when I received my very first pair of bib overalls!!!!   Now I even dressed “just like Dad”!  I busted with pride for looking like my patriarchal hero!  There were pockets galore in those bibs and I filled each one with things like Dad would carry, such as tools, pencils, little notebook, etc..

I LOVED to watch our father working the fields with our various Farmall tractors and equipment!  When my parents deemed that I was old enough, it was an extra special treat to be able to actually ride with our Dad on the tractor while he worked our fields!   Dad would pull back the throttle on that Super M Farmall and I’d watch the black exhaust spurt to the sky from the muffler as that powerful engine pulled plow, disc or corn planter up and down our acreage.  When our corn crop was in need of cultivating (getting the weeds out), our father allowed me to watch him hook up the four row cultivator to the tractor.  Standing alongside Dad, on the tractor, I watched those beveled hoe blades slice just below the soil’s surface as weeds were plowed under and the rows were left clean, aerated and dressed up as we rolled along.

Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 Verse 1 says, “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the Heaven.”   Alas, in 1967, our parents had to make a decision regarding farming.  One option was to continue in farming, in hopes that I would want to take over the farm after high school.  Or, sell the farm and start a new life in Washington State.  Dad, in his wisdom, just couldn’t take the gamble of waiting around to see what direction I might go in adulthood.  If I had chosen a different career, and NOT farming, then he and Mom would’ve been burdened with farming on their own into their senior years.  Following his best logic, a decision was made to sell the farm and a sale auction was held on July 22nd, 1967.  Neighbors from miles around came to see us that day and bought up everything from dishes, to screwdrivers, to tractors, to cows.

There’s an old saying, “You can take the boy outta the farm, but you’ll never take the farm outta the boy!”  That is so true!  To this very day, I get a happiness out of seeing a tractor working in a field as I drive down the highway.  There’s also a pleasure to my nostrils as I roll down car windows and imbibe the pungent aroma of a working dairy farm as I pass by.   All these happy “triggers” bring back joyful memories of childhood and the way of life I treasured as a little farm boy.  Overall, it was providential, and part of God’s divine wisdom, that we DID make the move to a new life in Washington State.  Besides, I’m no business-minded man and a bit of a brown thumb when it comes to growing things, so likely I may have failed as a farmer anyway.  Another fine factor in the move to a new life is the fact that, had we stayed in Minnesota, I never would have enjoyed the blessings of meeting a lovely lady and then the two of us bring forth our five wonderful children that were gifted to us with love from God.  I praise the Lord for my cherished years as a country boy……..The Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 1st…“WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY, WERE SOME WORDS MORE DIFFICULT TO SAY THAN OTHERS?”

POEM – “Thertan Werds” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When I wuth jutht, A widdo kid,

I twide to thpeek, Like udders did.

But thertan werds, Jutht nebber came,

Ands when day laffed, I jutht felt lame.

I pwayed a tigar, That hed thixth stwings,

And when it camed, Tew farmin’ tings,

Daddy hauled dat thtuff, From outta dah cow,

Wit big “nur predder”, Peeyoo and how.

Big’um werds, Nebber were my ting,

When me’s was widdo, Upon my thwing!! 😉

March 31st…“TELL ABOUT A FUNNY PRANK THAT WAS PLAYED ON SOMEONE.”

My fellow custodian, Cynthia, was determined to jape the juvenile that day as we worked at getting the summer cleaning done at Glenwood Hts. Elementary School.  This custodian lady was a mischievous little vixen when it came to teasing pranks and practical jokes.   Her double whammy combination sure made those summer cleaning duties stay on the wild side for our High School-aged temporary summer worker named, Scott.   Throughout that fateful day, Cynthia had been hiding around corners or sneaking up on Scott just to see him jump higher and higher from her antics.  As a result, Scott became VERY leery about even being near this high energy co-worker.

Later that afternoon, Scott was wayyyy down at the end of a long hallway doing some cleaning.    He was too far away to hear the conniving that was happening between Cynthia, Big John Maynard and myself.    That little sneak of a lady grabbed a new, black garbage bag and proceeded to tie the seamed end into a knot.  Then, Cynthia sat down on the floor, pulled her knees up against her chest and slid the open end of the trash bag down over her body.  Next, she tucked in the bag around her bottom.  She literally looked JUST like a big bag of garbage needing to taken to the dumpster.  Once settled inside her “trap”, Cynthia poked a hole in the bag towards Scott’s direction, so she could see Scott coming towards her up the long hallway.  At her command, Big John Maynard calls out to Scott, “Heyyyyyy SCOTT!!!!  Ya better come and take this bag of “garbage” out to the dumpster, it’s rreally starting to smell!!!”    Obedient to orders, Scott begins the journey towards us up the hallway.  All the way, Scott is commenting on how he’s wise to Cynthia’s tricks and how she’ll never fool HIM again.  Of course, little does he know, but the “spider” was waiting to catch the “fly”.

When Scott was within inches of picking up that “bag of trash”, Cynthia exploded out of her trap with a blood curdling scream and all mayhem broke loose from that point!  Scott screamed as high as any soprano and fell back against the hall wall grabbing for his chest.

Not sure if Scott made a little “puddle” on the floor, but John, Cynthia and myself BURST out laughing so hard and long, that we started to cry and hyperventilate from these shenanigans!!!  It was one of the most perfect practical jokes ever seen by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 30th…“WHAT WAS A FARMING LESSON YOU LEARNED THE HARD WAY?”

POEM – “On The Fence With Dad” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Dad could be a stinker, In our days back on the farm,

Although I’m sure, with good intent, He really meant no harm.

Like the time he asked me to go for a walk, When I was just about four,

If I’d known then, what was gonna happen, I’d have never gone out that door.

Now at that age, For any lad, You’ll gladly do ANYTHING, For your dad,

So as we walked, To get our cows, I soon discovered, The WOW of wows!!

Dad asked me, “Son can you do something for me?”, I wanted to please him best,

“Use this wet blade of grass, And touch that wire, Give that electric fence a test.

This naïve little guy,  With obedient try,  Laid that grass upon the wire,

Voltage shot through, My arm, Then I knew,  What it felt like to feel “on fire”!!!

My dad gave a laugh, While his little calf, Named Elliott started to bawl,

As he walked farther down, The cow lane that day, As if he’d done no wrong at all.

Years rolled by, And this little guy, Is now young buck of 13,

It’s time to learn, The ways of the farm, And from Father’s wisdom glean.

Until we hence, Came up to a fence, With electricity surging through wire,

Screwdriver in palm, My dad with all calm, Said, “I’ll show how to test if there’s fire.”

“NO WAY!!”, said I, “I remember the cry”, “I had when I was four!”

“Whether you’re straight, Or foolin'”, “You’ll not catch ME toolin'”, 

“With electric fences NO MORE!!”

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

Epilogue:  Dad got real upset with me that day, in 1967, when he truly MEANT to teach me about testing an electric fence.  And, later in life, what he showed me that day DID make sense.  But, even though (back in 1958) he had good intentions regarding the 4 year old shocker incident, I never forgot that sensation of my little muscles “locking up” for a second or two from that electrical shock and I wouldn’t trust Dad ……seeing that he was a BIG practical joker, too.  So went a farming life lesson learned for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 29th…“TELL US ABOUT ONE OF YOUR EARLY CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS.”

Snuggled among the valley of soft adult coats and shawls is where newborns were often placed on the bed for naps in the sweet days gone by.   When farm neighbors got together for fellowship, it was customary for folk to lay their great coats and other accouterments on the host couple’s bed for safe keeping.  In 1954, that is likely where I first met Davey Mutschler.  Of course, being relegated, at the time, to the drooling drivel of baby sounds, we likely just smiled (from gas) and reached out our pudgy, non-coordinated hands in attempts to touch each other.

In the land of a small drink….Mini Soda….(Minnesota….Hehehe!) I could always count on a wonderful playtime with my farmer boy buddy, Davey.   I can still see his dear grandmother, Genevieve Mutschler, walking with my pal into our small farm kitchen and Davey presenting me with a small green truck on one of my birthdays.   Davey’s toothy grin said it all as he saw the glee on my face from receiving such a kind gift.

Another boon to our nurturing friendship was that we both enjoyed Sundays when our families worshiped at the same church in our hometown.

Many adults touched our lives in that house of worship, but a favorite of mine was dear Mrs. Marlys Jean Stavely Kraus.  Many blessings to her heart and memory.  Mrs. Kraus would lead us young souls in a child-related study of the Word of God during our Sunday School hour and even helped us create an “Open Bible Cutting Board” one year for Vacation Bible School.  Each day, after Vacation Bible School had ended,  Davey Mutschler and I would burn off some energy chasing each other around that quaint church neighborhood after the preacher’s last AMEN was said.    A happy blur flew by of two buzzing little farm boys engulfed in uproarious laughter and could be heard by all as we cavorted in playtime around that church house on Sunday afternoons.   Memories, such as these, bonded my love for my fellow farm neighbor buddy even more.

Eventually, that thing called age caught up with us growing wiggle worms and we two farmer boys had to board the school bus and start attending school in nearby Kiester.   Tiny as we were, in those days, our bus driver (Marie Meyer) assigned three of us youngin’s to one seat.  It was the second or third seat right behind the bus driver, so we knew we’d better behave.  We had no worries, though, Marie Meyer loved me and Davey and cute little Colleen Wiehr as we sat under her watchful gaze via that super wide mirror just above Marie’s head.

As the big, yellow banana of a bus bumped along the gravel roads towards school one day, Colleen Wiehr shocked the two of us seatmates.  She had cut her finger somehow and rather than roll herself up into a little girl crying scene, she did the strangest thing; she stuck her injured finger into her mouth and started sucking the blood.  Davey and I were agog with our eyeballs wide as saucers at viewing this scene.  What really had us quizzically looking at each other was when Colleen pulled that injured finger out of that oral cavity and said, “Yummm, my blood tastes GOOD!!!” 😉

On some happy occasions, I would have the grand joy of making the journey on my bike, or Shetland pony, up to Davey’s farm for a playtime visit.  The Mutschler farm was only about 2 miles to our north, but at my age, it seemed like 20 miles when you’re pumping those small 20″ bicycle pedals a thousand times around and round on a thickly graveled road.   Davey’s mother, Priscilla, was a very lovely blonde-haired lady who welcomed me cordially into their handsome farm home.  Like any little one, I enjoyed being part of the Mutschler kid family for the day as we watched cartoons, enjoyed playing catch, explored their woods, etc. with Davey and his siblings.  I was blessed by this young friend in many ways.

I’m told that the only thing consistent in life is change.  And, that change came in late July of 1967 when my parents sold our farm and began plans to move our family out to Washington State.  I had to say goodbye to my pal that had been so faithful over the years.  It was a sad occasion, but I was determined to ‘keep in touch’ and follow his life via our hometown newspaper and from his beloved grandmother who often called or traveled out to visit us in our new home “out west”.    From what I gleaned, Davey had married his high school sweetheart and followed in the time-honored occupation of his father by pursuing an agricultural career near our dear hometown.  In 1998, I saw my buddy one last time while my family and I were back in Minnesota on vacation.  Now a father and grandfather, Davey had been a blessing to all those he touched with his faithful life and love for others.

“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants” Psalm 116:15 (NIV).  I kept musing upon that Bible verse when I heard of the death of my childhood friend.  Folks can correct me if I’m wrong, but I had heard that my pal was approaching a country intersection and was killed instantly when another driver “T-boned” his vehicle from the side.  It’s been 14 years (as of this writing in 2023) and I still find it hard to comprehend that his fine godly man is not still reading stories to his grandchildren, playing baseball, watching the Minnesota Twins play on TV or working his rich farmland.  I AM, though, so grateful to the Lord above for granting me the pure joy of knowing a dear soul of a man named, David Douglas Mutschler!   He was one of the wonderful blessings of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 28th…“TELL ABOUT AN EXPERIENCE AT A DOCTOR’S OFFICE WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD.”

The rigors of farming often took their toll on my father’s aching back.  To find some relief from the pain, Dad would often make an appointment and then point our family car in the direction of Blue Earth, Minnesota (which happened to be the town of my birth).  Our daddy had full confidence in the treatment he received from the talented hands of a chiropractor there by the name of Dr. Elliott Eugene Collison.

The unique gift this man possessed to adjust my father’s spine was, in every way, extra special in that Dr. Collison was completely blind.  Just think how impressive it would have been for a sighted person to go through schooling to achieve this goal and then to add blindness to that equation makes for a VERY accomplished man.  Our dad spoke so glowingly about this dear person that you’d think Dr. Collison was better than ice cream itself.  Not only did the doctor share his great knowledge in helping our father physically, but Dad also was enamored with Dr. Collison as a person of fine character and a good friend.  This admiration manifested itself in Dad telling the doctor one day, “Doc, if I ever have another son, I’m gonna name him after YOU”!!   

Therefore, when I entered this world in January of 1954, I was christened with the name Elliott.  It was our dad’s way of honoring the fine gentleman who brought him, not only physical relief from suffering, but also an abiding friendship.

As I got a little older (I’d say First Grade age), our daddy decided it was time that I met the man whom I was named after.  So, one evening, after the cows were milked and settled to rest,  my wiggly frame of a boy was invited to climb into our black Buick with Dad and away we drove into the evening sunset on our way to Blue Earth and Dr. Collison’s office.

Being so little, it was hard to comprehend what Dad meant about something called blindness.  I had two eyes that could see pretty darn good, so what was it like to be ‘in the dark’ all the time?   The doctor’s office was located inside of his home residence.  As we entered the doctor’s home and I shook hands with this tall man, we carried on some ‘getting to know you’ time.  Dad then instructed me to have a seat in the patient’s waiting room while the doctor gave Dad his spinal adjustments.

While sitting alone in that waiting room, I noticed that any kind of publication, whether book or magazines, were VERY LARGE in comparison to what I was used to at our family home or in my Kindergarten/First Grade classroom at school.  What really puzzled me, though, was that, other than a printed title on the front page, all the other pages in these publications were BLANK with ‘bumps’ on the paper.  No words or pictures or photos!!!   So strange, thought my little mind!!!

Our father was a voracious reader and received a LITTLE magazine at our farm home called “The Reader’s Digest”.  It was a small magazine measuring about 5″ by 7″ in size.  Dr. Collison’s “Reader’s Digest” was humongous and must have measured at least 14″ across by about 18″ long!!!  Now my little boy brain really began to churn to understand why that GIANT magazine had not ONE word or ONE photo inside???

When the two men came out of the examining room, I quickly ran up to Dad and told him of my ‘discovery’.  “Heyyyy Dad, these books are no good!!!  And there’s something wrong with these magazines, too!!  They don’t have even ONE picture and there’s NO words!!! Just a bunch of BUMPS all over the pages!!”  Thanks to the wisdom of their years and kind patience with this tiny whippersnapper, both Dad and Dr. Collison busted out laughing as my father gently ushered me out the front door of that quaint doctor’s home and towards our car for the trip home to our farm.  For this lil munchkin, the evening had been a new chapter in the lessons of life and learning that not all people see with their eyes, like I did, yet were VERY astute as to life around them.  The dear doctor was blind, that’s true, but it was a very EYE OPENING experience for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.