March 8th…“WHEN YOUR FAMILY WENT ON VACATION CAR TRIPS, WHAT KIND OF GAMES OR TOYS DID YOU BRING TO PLAY WITH?”

In a farmer’s life, the agricultural science of animal husbandry should actually have the title changed to animal MOMMA-ry, because our hard working daddy was like a mother to all of his animals on that farm.  Like any good farmer (and Christian), our father cared deeply for the animals God allowed to be under his care.  Farming (like motherhood) was a 7 day a week, 24 hours a day lifestyle.  Those dear creatures depended on our father (and the rest of our family) to feed them, milk the cows twice a day and care for them all year round.  A veritable part of the family, they were.

The majority of workers today get an earned paid vacation each year.  Not so for farmers.  If our poppa wanted a vacation, he not only had to pay for all the regular expenses while on the trip, but he ALSO had to PAY someone to come out to our farm and take care of the animals…..twice a day.  As a result, our vacations away from the farm were few and far between.

Some of those wonderful road trip vacations were to visit my mother’s brother, Bob and family, who lived in northern Minnesota near the town of Mahnomen.   That journey took the most part of a full day for us to travel from our farm (just north of the Iowa border) all the way up into the northern reaches of our State.  To prepare for this adventure, sister and I would gather together our various preferred plethora of play things.  For me, there was my cache of toy soldiers, small tractors and cars, Richie Rich comic books, etc..  Sister Candice would bring her dolls and other girlie fun things to occupy her time.  With our coloring books and goodies stashed in the back seat of the Chevy, we’d bid our parents “Sova Godt” (sleep well…in Norwegian) and then drift off to dreamland excited for the next day.

In those dark, early morning hours, I can still remember the fragrance of Dad’s “Old Spice” cologne as he gently scooped me out of my bed, covers and all, and carried me down the stairwell and out to our purring Chevrolet.  He carefully deposited me into the back seat and allowed me to resettle into slumber as he went for my little sister upstairs in her room.  With a last check on the checklist, our parents climbed into that powerful vehicle and we were on our way.  Even as we little ones slid back into sleep, we could hear the gravel from our country roads grinding under our tires as that Chevy carried us northward to see our northern cousins and extended family.

Eventually, sister and I came awake and peeked over the side windows to view the lovely Minnesota landscape flying by us.  Our family vacations were in the days before seat belts were installed in most cars.  Therefore, it was common practice for us kiddos to hunker down on the floor of the backseat and use the flat surface of the seat for a myriad of imagination play time.  I would play soldiers, as I lined up my army to attack the bad guys and “win the war”.  Later, I’d have my tractors hooked up to plows and other implements to “work the fields” of my side of the car’s backseat.

Of course, my very favorite comic books to read along the journey were “Richie Rich”(The Poor Little Rich Boy)!  I remember when they were just 10 cents…..then 12 cents.   A BIG, thick Richie Rich comic was a whole 25 cents.  Part of my road trip playtime was to dream and read about this little boy who had EVERYTHING he could ever think of because he had all the money in the world.  It was a fun way to pass the time as we traveled mile after mile towards our goal of family in the northern part of our great State of Minnesota.

Like any child, by the time we neared our uncle’s farm outside of Mahnomen, Minnesota, both of us youngin’s were bored of our toys n books and ready for fun.  On one outing, we stopped at Itasca State Park where the Mississippi River has its birth.  This little 7 year old adventurer was able to actually walk across that mighty river as it trickled out of a tiny spring at its headwaters.   I guess you could say that I was “toying” with the Mississippi that day.  😉   Fun memories they were for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 7th…“WHAT WAS THE NAUGHTIEST THING YOU RECALL DOING IN GRADE SCHOOL AND WHAT WERE THE CONSEQUENCES?”

IF I believed in reincarnation (which I don’t), I’d have fun theorizing that I was a mischievous, midget Viking from another time; full of spit n spunk in a short little trunk of a kid.  Orrrrr, maybe it was because I was an ornery third born child, or just being a boy?  Well, all of the above made me a short, little, but happy, schemer who enjoyed having fun on the playground at Kiester Elementary School in Kiester, Minnesota.

As far as answering the ‘naughty’ part of the question….. I did tend to get in trouble for FUN reasons.  Even back in Grade School, I loved to chase the ‘older women’ while out on the playground at recess time.  Linda and Judy were three years older than I was and, boy, were they ever full of zip and giggles when they saw me make my daily grand entrance onto that expansive playground that we enjoyed.  All it took was some good-natured taunts and teases from those ‘mature’ young ladies and ZOOOM, the chase was on!!!

The three of us had the greatest times!!  This itty bitty 3rd Grader, pumping those tiny Norwegian legs, was in hot pursuit of those two lovely ladies of 6th Grade maturity.   As I look back, from the wisdom of adulthood, it was only too evident in the smiles of Judy and Linda that they had reached the time in their young womanhood life that made them fully aware of the popular song at that time called, “The Birds And The Bees, And Flowers And The Trees, And The Moon Up Above……And a Thing Called Love!!”.   In between the laughs and squeals, I’d ‘capture’ them with my speedy speeds.  Now, as my ‘prisoners’, they would look down at me smiling with almost a womanly wink and ask, “Well, Elliott, what are ya gonna do with us now?”.  Of course, being the thimble-brained 3rd Grader that I was (and fully ignorant of what the girls meant), I would respond, “Duhhhh, I dunno…….chase ya again, I guess??!!”  Such was my prepubescent ignorance of the ‘facts of life’.

The big, red Future Farmers Of America (FFA) Building sat smack dab in the middle of our playground world and during the winter, the snow would pile up deep and thick along its walls from drifting, frozen winds.  One of my jealous classmates had ‘ratted’ on me and ‘justice’ (in the form of my teacher) reached out its long arm of the law and I was officially in trouble for chasing the gals.  The punishment meted out to me, for this ‘heinous crime’ (tongue-in-cheek tease) came in the form of needing to have one of my hands touching that FFA Building at all times while at recess.  Now to THIS little kid, who had a zeal to burn energy and enjoy my freedom, this form of ‘confinement’ was like a prison sentence……to be literally stuck to that big, red building instead of running anywhere I wanted.  Later while at recess, on that frigid, winter’s day, here came ‘my gals’, Judy and Linda, for our usual dose of glee.  I relayed to them my ‘prisoner status’ and my fate for being a ‘chaser of older women’.   They quickly chimed their response with an idea ……..”Heyyyy, why don’t you just chase us around the building itself then?”  BINGO, and the fun pursuit was back on!!!   Round and round the FFA Building we went, creating a trench in the almost 3 feet of snow along those red metal walls.  All the while, in my conniving little boy logic, I justified that I WAS being obedient (in a way) by having my one hand on that building at all times, ya??? 😉   The three of us would keep our eyes peeled for Big Bad Bossy Barton (a very tall/large teacher who was Playground Boss).  When we’d spot her, we’d grind to a halt to allow her to pass by while we’d stand there just talking.   But once ol’ Barton went around the corner of that building…..ZOOOOOM!……the chase was once again on for ‘older women’ for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

A heart-rending epilogue to this story was the passing of Miss Linda Ilene Wigern in May of 1967.  Our family was preparing to move to Washington State within a couple months and I can STILL remember how stunned I was to see her photo and obituary in our Kiester Courier newspaper one day.  Hometown folk can correct me if I’m wrong, but I had heard that she was riding in a pickup truck that lost control on one of the country roads near our town of Kiester, Minnesota.  I heard that, as the truck careened out of control and was heading for the wide expansive ditch, she was thrown from the cab of the vehicle and was crushed as it rolled.   Over half a century has passed since her death, and yet to this day, my heart sighs in sadness to think of this beautiful young woman that would never know High School Graduation, marriage, children and life in general.  My heart mourns for what her family must’ve endured in suffering her loss.  Her beauty rivaled that of one of the famous Lennon Sisters………Peggy Lennon (they look almost like twins).   I count myself to have been blessed to have known Linda and the childhood joys we shared.  So says I, with a tear in my eye, The Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😦

March 6th…“TELL ABOUT HOW YOU SPENT YOUR SUNDAYS DURING YOUR EARLY YEARS IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA.”

In those peaceful, Sunday morning hours, that giant yellow orb could be seen rising in the sky against the silhouettes of neighboring farms to our east.  God’s lovely Minnesota sunrise welcomed me to another Lord’s Day.

For our family, as Christians, I often felt that the name of this day should’ve been reconstructed as SONday, for we, as a family, would soon attend Sunday School and sing God’s worship with the fellow saints of our village at Grace Evangelical United Brethren Church in Kiester, Minnesota.

Our family farm lay a full three miles to the northwest of town, but yet I could stand in our front yard, on those Sabbath mornings, and hear those distinct, large bell chimes coming from our church’s steeple and bell tower.  With each melodic peal, that handsome brass instrument would beckon us to heed the Bible verse in the book of Hebrews Chapter 10 Verse 25 that says, “Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another, and so much more, as ye see the day approaching.”  That large bell’s peals were a musical invitation to this young boy’s ears.

Still squeaky clean from my Saturday night bath, I was told to dress up in my Sunday best and be ready to jump in our car to head for Sunday School.  Our beloved mother was always the faithful one who got us to church each Lord’s Day, and, if she wasn’t able to, for some reason, she had a “second mother” who lived on the next farm to the north of us.

Gentle and with an elegance all her own, Genevieve Mutschler would hear the phone ring in her lovely home to the north of our farm, pick it up, and then graciously agree to Mom’s need for our transportation to church on some Sunday mornings.

When it came to going to church in style, Genevieve really came through.  She, and her jovial husband Wally, had recently purchased a brand spanking new 1960 Ford Galaxie 500 Town Victoria.  In just moments, that handsome lavender set of wheels could be seen rolling over the peak of the pleasant gravel road from the north and drew to a stop at the foot of our driveway.   Every bit a lady, Genevieve leaned over, and with her going to church white gloves on, popped opened the passenger door for little sister Candice and myself to slide into and onto the plastic embossed seat covers that were stretched over the handsome seat fabric.  These clear covers were necessary to protect the upholstery fabric from the rough life of a farmer and his family’s daily ways.

Now settled in to that dream boat of a car, Genevieve allowed that powerful Ford engine to reinitiate the trip to church as she ferried us across the gravel roads towards our beloved hometown of Kiester.

Whether by Genevieve, or by our parents, I always enjoyed arriving at the front of our church.   Not only were there giant shade trees comforting us by their coolness, but I knew I would be greeted heartily each week by one of our church ushers at the front door.  Mike Iverson made me feel special and loved with his teasing and giant smile each Sunday.  His crooked, toothy grin was unique to me, but even more deeply, I saw God’s love in his eyes as he sent me happily on my way downstairs to Sunday School in our church’s basement.

The shepherd of our E.U.B. congregation, in those days, was the Reverend E. J. Utzinger (pronounced YOOT-ZINGER).  To my little boy eyes, he kinda resembled the old time comedian, Jack Benny, only this man was NOT funny and he was dressed in black clerical robes with a very sober countenance.  I’m confident Pastor Utzinger had every intention of serving God in our small community in the best of manners, it’s just that smiling seemed rather strained and unnatural for him.

Like most children, the adult oriented sermons were wayyyyy over my head as far as understanding their high and lofty King James English.  Instead of trying to pay attention to the sermon, I found myself daydreaming to pass the time as I sat next to our mother in our pew.  I would imagine that the cracks in the square-tiled floor below me were intersecting country roads, just like those of our farming region that were laid out in “quarter section” squares.  While sitting quietly in the pew, in my mind I would pretend that I was riding my imaginary Harley Davidson motorcycle (or other vehicles) up and down my “roads” until our mother would nudge me to let me know it was time to stand up and sing another hymn.

Even as a little boy, there in our church worship time, I loved to sing the traditional classic hymns of our Christian faith.  Most of all, I enjoyed listening to our mother’s fine singing voice as we stood together and sang praises to our Lord Jesus Christ.  The timeless nature of those hymns, with their regal melodies and majestic lyrics, tell the beautiful story of our Savior, His love for us and the ultimate sacrifice He made for us at Calvary.

The benediction was then given by Reverend Utzinger and we often left the church worship center singing “Blessed Be The Tie That Binds”.  Now, it was time to head back home to the farm and enjoy the mid-day meal, which us Minnesota folk called, “Dinner”.  After Mom’s delicious Sunday meal, sister Candi and I would wash and dry the family dishes while Mom and Dad often enjoyed a nice Sunday afternoon nap.

When our parents woke up from their relaxing nap time, it was fairly common to enjoy this “day of rest” by taking a drive to visit family or friends in a neighboring town, or, just let the car take us on a leisurely drive through the rich farmlands of southern Minnesota or northern Iowa.  I, for one, was tickled with delight when our Sunday drives would end up on the Minnesota/Iowa border at an A&W Drive In Restaurant.  In those days, a waitress (better known as a “car hop”) would trot out to our car and take down our food and drink order.  While the food was being prepared inside, our family would chit chat as we watched other cars roll by on the highway.  Soon, our waitress was walking back towards our car with a tray laden with delicious food.  The tray was made to hook onto the top of Dad’s roll-down window and he’d then begin handing food, ice cream, etc. to the rest of the family.  The biggest treat on that tray, as far as I was concerned, were those big, frost-covered glass mugs of A&W Root Beer.  YUMMM!

There were some Sundays when Dad and Mom would wait till chores and the milking of our dairy herd were completed before doing something special as a family.  On those balmy Summer Sunday evenings, our red and white 1956 Chevrolet would amble through the miles of our local countryside’s gravel roads.  Our family relished the cooling breezes that floated through the rolled down car windows.  As the sun would be setting in its splendor, that one single light was replaced by what seemed to be millions of lights blinking in the tall grasses of the wide ditches and into the expansive crop fields around us.  Lightning Bugs (also known as Fire Flies) were like “glitter from God” as they would blink and wink at us driving by their grassy domains.   We would be in awe, taking in the twinkling presence of these tiny creatures that made the culmination of a Sunday most memorable for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 5th…“TELL ABOUT HOW YOU SPENT YOUR SATURDAYS ON THE FARM.”

Miss Meadowlark christened another Minnesota Saturday morning with her singular symphony of song.  She truly set my tone of joy as the hinge pins creaked on our farm home’s back-porch screen door as I stepped outside to drink in the fragrance of the new day and our nearby Lilac bush.  The aroma of those Lilacs were like a dessert after having just given our mother thanks for the great breakfast she prepared for us.

With a mixture of morning dew and gravel among my toes, my bare feet were quickly toughening to a thick, calloused layer that was almost as hard as shoe leather.  This attribute allowed me to run barefoot and play, even in the stubble-covered Alfalfa field that Dad had recently harvested.

Well, let’s get into today’s gentle adventure…..Saturdays were a mixture of standard chores (that we did seven days a week) and upon completion of those tasks, our father, Russell, would hail us to his side and let us know what special event might be happening on our farm that day.

On our farm, Dad grew the rich forage legume known as Alfalfa.  It was replete in nutrients for our livestock to eat and thrive by, rather than feeding them a simple grass hay.   Among our family, and others in our farming community, we knew the proper name for this crop, but everyone still called the Alfalfa by the common nomenclature of “hay”.   And, for that Saturday, in particular, haying season was upon us.

A few days prior to this busy haying event, Dad had used his “International Harvester” Sickle Mower to cut our Alfalfa crop down.  Now came a time for the hay to lay drying in the sunshine.  Another day or so, and Dad would pull an implement behind his “Farmall” Model H tractor that would then rake the crop into windrows to make it easier to bale.

Thankfully, for our folks, there were usually young, local high school students who were always eager to make a few extra dollars, so Dad would hire enough of those strong youngsters that he needed to get this operation completed.  This agricultural operation was sometimes complicated by “Mother Nature”.    Approaching rain storms often pressed Dad and his crew to bale hay as fast as they could, even into the nighttime, if need be, so they could get the dry hay into the barn’s haymow before rain fell from the sky.  Moisture in the hay could hurt its food value, and a strong rain, “hammering” at the cut and fragile Alfalfa leaves was not good.  Worse yet, if the hay was baled wet, those tight bales, with moisture inside, could burst into flames in the barn’s upstairs haymow by a process known as spontaneous combustion/ignition.  Then, our entire barn could burn to the ground.

From my young eye’s viewpoint, I was always in awe of the clockwork of our farming family and team of helpers who were making as fast a work as possible in bringing in tons of hay bales from our field.

Hot exhaust poured from the tall tractor muffler as Dad’s “Farmall” Model Super M began pulling the hay baler and a flat rack wagon.  Our brother, Lowell, or a hired hand, standing on that flat rack, would slam a long-handled hay hook into the bale as it slowly was pushed out of the baler.  With a muscular yank of that hay hook, our big brother (or a hired hand) would pick up the hay bale by its sisal twine strings and stack it on the flat rack wagon in interlocking patterns until the wagon load of bales was as high as possible.  A downside of this haying operation was the brisk prairie winds that often blew the hay chaff all over the stacker person.  That scratchy chaff also tended to stick to your sweaty skin and sift down into your clothing to itch at you under your T-shirt.

Now, it was another family member (or hired hand) that would drive up alongside our father with an empty flat rack wagon.  Dad brought the baler to a standstill while a full wagon was unhitched and an empty wagon hooked onboard.   The tractor engine was revved up by our father and the baling commenced once again.

This frenzied flurry of farming continued well into the evening hours as the sun began to wink its way below the horizon.   Our bevy of Mourning Doves nestled in the treed windbreak then began to sing us their own song of quietness as another Saturday came to rest for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 4th…“DO YOU HAVE A GOOD STORY ABOUT YOURSELF SWEARING OR CUSSING?”

Do you mean those adverse, antisocial adjectives arranged aggregately in acrid aim at anyone and anything?  Ohhhhh…….THOSE….hehehe 😉  Well, my dear ones, I’m of the opinion that there can never be a “good” story about swearing or cussing.  Yet, alas, like many a youngster growing up, I DID indulge in that lesser character trait from time to time.  Guilty was I for burdening the air around me with, let’s say, an UNwise choice of words.

On such occasions, our dear mother employed Proverbs 22:6 (“Train up a child in the way he should go……) by her stern chastisement to me in the form of three terse words, “SHAME ON YA!!!”.  The chilled reverberations of her words in my ears would make me feel like less that 2 cents really quick.

Have you ever filled a bucket with sloppy mud?  If you tipped that bucket upside down, did sparkling spring water come out……….noooo, I didn’t think so….you got out of that bucket exactly what you put INTO it.  To this very day, I’m STILL learning the correlation that what I pour into the “bucket of my mind and heart” is equal to what I pour out of my mouth and into the world around me.  By drinking in the crystal clear spring water of God’s Word, that equates to pouring out the same clean flow to be a blessing to those around me.  On the contrary, if I ingest the “mud” of anger, selfishness, envy and worse, then I’ll sadly pour out the sludge of negative language that will then infect those around me.

During my years as a Grade School Custodian, I made it my focus to control my tongue around the little darlings that attended that school each day.  I wanted to “teach”, in my own way, a positive role model in how I acted and reacted to my life around the students.  Sometimes I would be out on the playground working on a piece of equipment and would injure myself.  In response to my pain, rather than turn the air “blue” with foul language, I’d purposefully say something silly like, “Ohhh busted baby booger bubbles!!”  orrrr   “Oooooo, that tickled!!”  The little sweethearts around me would giggle and laugh at what I just said while in pain.  I figured it was much better to create laughter in the children than have them covering their ears in shock and being wounded by ugly words and my lack of sensitivity.   I’m not perfect by a long shot, but such is one of the good goals of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 3rd…“DID YOU EVER PRETEND TO BE SICK AS AN EXCUSE TO STAY HOME FROM SCHOOL?”

POEM – “The Fractured Fleasel” by N. Elliott Noorlun

“Ohhhh Mommy, Ohhhh Mommy!!!

“I’ve bent my barnsnoogle, And fractured my fleasel!!”,

Were the sly whining words, From this lil weasel.

I’d pull out ideas, From deep in my noodle,

To avoid those school halls, With their kit-n-kaboodle.

I’d hug at my belly, With dramatized groan,

To sell this dear lady, My skills I would hone.

But e’en when I claimed, Belly button was leaking,

And the smells from the oozings, Would really be reeking,

That wise and wonderful, Mother of mine,

Knew my drama techniques, Were a bit outta line.

So I picked up my books, And ran for the bus,

To school was the goal, For this little cus. 😉

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This poem is just a fun way of saying that our mother’s wisdom always knew what was silly and what was true!   Like it or not, education was in the works for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

March 2nd…“TELL ABOUT A HIGH SCHOOL PRINCIPAL THAT YOU REMEMBER.”

Our “ambush” of Tigers at Battle Ground High School were proud of our black and orange school colors.  Those colors linked us together under the good-natured and dynamic leadership of the “Chief Tiger” who ruled over the hundreds of teenagers that mingled and merged in those halls of education.  That regal “Chief Tiger” was none other than the honorable Mr. Melvin Hope “Pat” Pettichord.  Born in 1915, Mr. Pettichord was a handsome man and used to walk with a type of swagger that exuded the confidence he held within himself.   Our Principal presented an aura of  ‘can do’ persona and exuded an almost manly glow surrounding him.  With that ramrod-straight back and an almost military gait, he strode with respect by groups of students each day.

Later, in my adult life, I found out that, in his young years, our dear Principal was considered one of the best contenders in many Track & Field events and was strongly considered as a likely member to be part of the Track & Field American Team that would travel to the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, Germany.  Sadly, from the stories I heard, he became quite ill just before the tryouts commenced and, hence, he lost his opportunity to compete in the legendary Olympics that year that occurred right under the nose of Adolf Hitler, himself.

I said goodbye to Mr. Pettichord and High School in 1972.   I then went to work for my school district as a custodian.  After completing 31 years of service with the Battle Ground Schools, I supplemented my retirement income by working at our local Safeway store.  Through the passing decades, Mr. & Mrs. Pettichord faithfully lived just kitty-corner across the road from the store.   I had the pleasure to see him often when he came into the store for groceries and visit with old friends.  The ravages of the years had caught up with this great man and he was now hobbling along with the use of a cane and stooped over at almost 90 degrees from degenerative bone issues in his back.  It quietly broke my heart to see this manly man, who portrayed all that was good and masculine, from my youth, now barely able to shuffle through the store to secure his daily needs.

Our proud Principal has now passed into eternity (9/21/1915 – 8/8/2005).  About three years after his death, Mr. Pettichord’s lovely wife, Eva, succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease (9/27/1918 – 11/7/2008) .  If it’s even still standing (at this writing), their quaint little green house, at our town’s very busy intersection, is empty and derelict now with a FOR SALE sign languishing out in their front yard where once lived an exemplary man and his handsome family.  Our world loses its seasoning and becomes a bit more bland when we lose these sweet folks who contributed so much to the flavor of our lives by their love and contributions while with us.

To end this chapter on a happy note, here’s the story of how Mr. Pettichord interacted with my girlfriend and I one day in our High School years.  Being the little lovebirds we were, back then, my lady and I were leaning with our shoulders against a brick wall of the school’s Music Building.  Yes, we were very close as we nuzzled and cuddled with each other against the chill of a frosty fall day.  By today’s lax standards, our coziness was considered VERY MILD!!!   Yet, up to us walks Mr. Pettichord and directs each of us to separate until there was at least a foot or two of distance between us.  I surmise he was trying to shame us by what he said next.  “What would your parents say if I took a photo of you two right now?”  Being a little too witty for my own good, I smiled and replied, “They’d probably ask for enlargements!!”.   Good-hearted Mr. Pettichord had to squelch a smile that almost popped onto his face when he could tell that I had just “called his bluff”.   Sobering up, he said, “That wasn’t the answer I was looking for!”  He warned us young lovers to “keep our distance” and then our school administrator walked on his way.  Such was one of the fun memories of our Principal in the High School times of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 1st…“IN HIGH SCHOOL DAYS, WERE YOU EVER A CAST MEMBER IN A MUSICAL PRODUCTION?”

The passing of over fifty years have not diminished one iota of the fantastical magic of the grand musical story of “Camelot”!!  It still graces my heart and memory.    Early, in our High School Junior year of 1971, in Battle Ground, Washington, our beloved Concert Choir teacher, the honorable Mr. Orrell Peru, opened up to us the world of Broadway musicals in the form of the story of the mythical kingdom of Camelot.

In a very short time, I had fallen in love with the songs and storyline of this “Lerner & Lowe” creation.   I had aspired to, and auditioned for, the part of “Prince Lancelot”.   Alas, though, since my school grades were low, the selection committee decided that I already had enough on my curriculum ‘plate’, as it was; therefore, I did NOT get the part of “Lancelot”.  Instead, I was awarded the supporting role of Lancelot’s servant, “Squire Dap”.  Now boys will be boys, so, in the derogatory humorous nature of High School males, my fellow choir buddies used to have fun by renaming me “Squire DIP“! 😉

Overall, this was going to be a great life experience of embarking on a trip into how a stage musical is put together from start to finish.  Days, weeks and eventually months went by as we teamed up to learn our singing parts, having our parents create costuming, watching stage sets being built in the West Gym of our High School, etc., etc..

Another aspect of this fantasy musical was the dancing.  I was chosen to be one of those dancers.  Our choreography instructor was Mrs. Donna Stone.  For a small-statured woman, she held us to a rigid discipline as we learned the craft of creating the dance sequences that would occur in this performance.   Our young male egos were bolstered by the appearance of having muscles as we seemed to lift our feminine dance partners into the air, when, in actuality, Mrs. Stone had taught the young ladies to jump upwards just before we assisted them with our hands at their waists.  Sure looked impressive, at least! 😉

Dress rehearsals for “Camelot” had finally arrived.  All choir members were to assemble at the school stage that evening for a first full run-through of the musical with all of us in FULL costume.   Seeing that the musical, historically, was set in 12th Century England, the fashion of that time held that men wore leotard tights on their lower extremities.  Jump aboard the time machine, if you will, to the year 1971 and that’s the LAST thing a young male would EVER want to wear…….girl’s tights or leotards.   Yet, wanting to be obedient to Mr. Peru’s directives, I faithfully came that night in full costume INCLUDING my blue, girl leotards.  I walked around the corner and onto the stage and was mortified that only ONE other guy had worn his leotards that evening along with me.  He and I were immediately and verbally pounced upon by all the cat calls and whistles that the other male cast members could muster.  Embarrassed is a huge understatement for how we felt!

With his voice raised in justice and righteous indignation, Mr. Peru came to the rescue of myself and the other leotard-wearing cast member as he began to strongly chastise all of the other prideful male choir members for THEIR failure to not appear in FULL costume for that very important rehearsal.  You could have heard a pin drop in that large auditorium after Mr. Peru was finished lambasting the cast.  He finished with, “If EVERYONE is not in FULL costume for the next rehearsal…..the entire musical will be called OFF!!!”  We knew he meant it, too!  On the next rehearsal night, every leotard was on every boy.  The two of us who had endured our classmate’s  taunting that night felt happily vindicated for having endured that rancorous teasing.

Without a doubt, our musical would’ve never been “born”, if it weren’t for the talented leadership of Mr. Jim Detchman and our great young members of the Battle Ground School District’s Symphonic Band.  These were the days before fancy pre-recorded soundtracks existed, so if you wanted accompaniment music, it had to be performed LIVE.

With the gala event just weeks away, now it was time to promote our musical extravaganza.  Mr. Bob Peck, and his great school district Art Department, created large posters to go up all over our town and local area venues.  The school newspaper did articles with photos of the upcoming “Camelot” musical.  Even the local “The Columbian” newspaper and “Reflector” newspapers created stories to put out the word to the public that it would only cost $1.50 for Adults and just $1.00 for students to attend this gala event.

The opening song of “Camelot” states my heart feelings so well as it sang…..”In short there’s simply not, A more congenial spot, For happy-ever-aftering, Than here in Camelot”…….for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 28th…“TELL ABOUT OTHER PETS YOU HAD ON YOUR FARM.”

POEM – “The Pet Called Puddles” by N. Elliott Noorlun

There was “Cheetah” the sheep, And “Angel” the cow,

But then came the pet, That went bow wow.

“Puddles”, Our only indoor pet,

For to get his name, It was easy to bet.

Cause every time, We turned around,

His bladder would burst, And yes, we found,

PUDDLES, you guessed it, T’was our yellow mess,

So THAT was his name, I now confess!!  😉

February 27th…“TELL ABOUT THE BEST PET YOU EVER HAD.”

“Spotty” was my buddy, my BEST buddy!!  That dear dog and I were inseparable.  No matter how much trouble I was in with parents, teachers or whoever; my pal “Spotty” was always thrilled to see me.  Energetically he would ‘lick my face off’ because he was my devoted friend no matter what anyone else said about me.

There would be times I’d be crying from a scolding by teacher or parents.  There I sat, in a lap full of tears, as “Spotty” would see me from a distance and run to my side.  That pooch literally would ‘kiss’ my tears away with that happy tongue of his, leaving me slathered and slobbered all over, yet glad for this sincere camaraderie between that Terrier and myself.  Oftentimes, we’d play fight with each other.  I’d have my leather gloves on and that aggressive lil stinker would bite and gnaw on my clenched fist.  It was his roughhouse way of saying, “I love this human chew toy!!”

In the Bible, Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 Verse 2 says, “There’s a time to be born, And a time to die…..”.  Sadly, in early August of 1967, it was the moment to be “Spotty’s” time to die.  Our parents had sold the family farm and Dad had decided that “Spotty” would not be making the trip with us to our new home in Washington State.  Although our farmer father loved all of our animals, including “Spotty”, he had to face the reality of a time crunch and moving our family to a whole new life on the West Coast.  There just would not be the luxury of space in the vehicles in trying to take “Spotty” along for the journey.  It would have also consumed precious time to try to find a new home for the family dog.  Poor Dad, he was obviously overloaded with so much to do in packing and getting ready for the 1,720 mile journey ahead of us all.  As far as our little Terrier……..what had to be done, had to be done! 😦

My brother-in-law was given the task of killing our dog.  My job, on that fateful day, was to jump in the bed of our 1950 Ford pickup and call “Spotty” to jump in there with me.  Happily obedient, my four legged friend jumped up and inside the truck box with me for what was to be his last ride on this earth.  As usual, his tail was wagging with joy for taking this ride and he was exuding his usual trademark energy for life.  As the truck bumped along the alfalfa field and towards the ‘thicket’ (back woods) of our property, the tears flowed from my eyes like a faucet as I petted and hugged this dear dog as my brother-in-law approached the ‘thicket’ at the far SW corner of our 120 acre farm.

I just couldn’t bear the pain of actually seeing my canine cutie being shot, so, after “Spotty” and I jumped down from the truck bed, I had him follow my brother-in-law while I climbed into the pickup’s cab.  I tightly rolled up both windows to keep out the sound of what I knew would happen shortly.  I watched “Spotty” obediently follow that man with the rifle towards the thick brush and then disappear around a corner.

I clasped my hands tightly over my ears in the hopes of not hearing the crack of that rifle shot, but…...KAPOWWW!!!.….I still heard the awful shot that ended my “Spotty’s” life.  Even though I was a young man of 13 years, it was a very lonely rest of the day and full of tears for this country boy who no longer would enjoy the company of that little white Terrier who had shown me his heart to be full of love and licks for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.