February 26th…“TELL ABOUT A FAVORITE HANGOUT PLACE FOR YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS IN YOUR DAYS AT KIESTER, MINNESOTA”

In the crisp chill of fall in 1966, my buddies and I had just finished watching our Kiester High School “Bulldogs” beat the pants off of a local rival school.  With the thrill of the game still fresh in our minds, we pondered what we should do to continue our victory celebrations.  Amongst me and my ‘buds’, it was unanimous that we should continue this mode of celebration at our Kiester Lanes Bowling Alley.  This relatively new business was located on West State Street that traveled east/west through the southern part of our hamlet.

Swishing our feet through thick layers of fall leaves, we meandered through neighborhood sidewalks on our way to the bowling alley.  We were normal, rowdy preteens as we walked along in the evening shadows with our puffing breath appearing in chilly vapors on the frosty night air.  Like young stallions in pasture, we rough-housed with each other in forms of jovial pushes, elbow jabs and the like.  Some of the guys would run ahead to hide behind trees and then jump out to scare us from their secluded darkness.  These fun shenanigans kept us all edgy and on our toes as we traversed the rest of the chilly way until we could reach our destination for bowling and tasty treats from the snack bar or grill.

When our gang arrived at Kiester Lanes, it was obvious that every other kid and adult in town had conjured up the same idea.  That bowling alley was packed like sardines with bodies from wall to wall!  As my ears were filled with the din of conversations and sound of bowling balls rumbling, I began to negotiate my young body through this mass of townspeople.  Suddenly, I felt two hands on my waistline.  Thinking, in a blink, that it was one of my buddies that had come over with me from the football field, I figured this was a continuation of that rough-housing we’d enjoyed in the neighborhood.  Yes?  NO!!!  Without looking back to confirm who it was that touched me, I cocked my elbow and drove it backwards with a quick thrust!!  What I heard next was a lady’s yelp of shock and loss of air as I had literally nailed her in the gut and she was knocked against others in that crowd.

That poor local lady was just trying to get through that tight crowd as I had been trying to do.  I was in shock about what I had just done!!!  I was ALWAYS taught by my parents to give honor and respect to any elder in all situations.  This was NOT my normal ‘modus operandi’!!!  When that poor lady regained her composure, she turned on all her burners and gave me one HORRENDOUS ‘tongue lashing’ about how terrible and disrespectful I was to an adult and especially to a grown woman!!  No matter how much I tried to apologize to her in saying this had been an honest accident, in her eyes I was ‘dead meat’.   Her ‘dagger eyes’ burned holes right through my 12 year old conscience that night.  That experience changed the entire evening as the only thing on the bowling alley’s menu from that episode was ‘humble pie’ and ‘dead chicken’ for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 25th…“TELL OF A PLACE THAT YOU DISCOVERED OR BUILT FOR YOUR GANG.”

Only in my dreams could I have ever built a clubhouse for any gang (of which there was only ONE in the gang…..ME).  So, to have a fun twist on this entry, I created a poem to describe my talents in woodworking…….or maybe I should say, ‘Wood Butchering’ 😉

POEM – “Wood Butcher” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When I was a kid, And picked up a saw,

I tried to follow the line,

Upon the wood, If only I could,

Make a straight cut, On any old pine.

A wood butcher was, The closest thing,

That would kinda describe my craft,

I’d bend the nails, And cry my wails,

My clubhouse was bad fore and aft.

So the only clubhouse, That I had,

Was within my imagination,

All cool n sublime,  At any old time,

A little boy happenin’ station.

February 24th…“DESCRIBE A PLACE YOU LIKED TO GO TO BE ALONE.”

Solitude was easy to achieve on our farm there in southern Minnesota.  Our folks owned 120 acres of rich, black farmland and a giant ‘thicket’ (large woods) that was located on both sides of Brush Creek.  On top of that, Dad rented and farmed another 120 acres that were adjacent to our land.

I ascertained, from an early age, that I could be just as easily pleased in the quiet joys of aloneness, as well as being in the company of family or friends.  I was never one who followed the crowd in school days.  I preferred being secure in my singular quietness, if necessary, rather than trying to find my worth in shadowing or following along with some one person or group.   This attribute of entertaining myself was likely brought about because my elder siblings were 8 years and 11 years older than myself so they already had friends of their own generation to enjoy.   And, as far as my younger sister was concerned, ……well, she was, after all, a GIRL!  😉

On many a brilliant Minnesota morning, I’d sometimes take a bandanna containing yummies like crackers, cheese, etc. and head off for Brush Creek that ran from east to west across the south border of our pasture land.  I’d spend the whole day exploring the water’s edges up one side and down that cool little river as mud squirted between my toes.  With my blue jeans rolled up past my knees, I’d drink in the beauty of Nature’s ways as that little creek meandered it’s way, eventually, towards the mighty Mississippi River far to our east.

There were times  that I’d find myself hidden in the bends of the creek, so I’d peel off those human layers (called clothes) and bask in the ‘flesh of my birthday suit’ while the swift prairie winds funneled their way down the creek beds for my cooling enjoyment. 🙂  If I heard the grinding of gravel under a car or tractor tires, I’d launch my nakedness under the nearest shady clump of grass or cliff of the creek bed for momentary shelter.

One of the tiny warriors living in Brush Creek were the crawdads.  Like itty-bitty lobsters, they were fascinating and WOWSA, could they ever move fast!  To catch ’em, you’d have to aim your hand just right for your fingers to grasp them behind their front pinchers.  If you missed……..they, instead, became the pincher and YOU became the PINCHEE!!!   Within seconds, it was now you who were the subject of their tiny wrath for having disturbed their day.

One of my favorite little ‘wild things’ were the baby frogs called “Tadpoles” (although some also label them as polliwogs).   There were abundant ‘schools’ of them in Brush Creek as they’d create a ribbon effect while their tiny tails whipped and plied the waters looking for shade and food.  I’d scoop up loads of them in a large Mason jar from Mom’s kitchen and then take them home for a day or so to enjoy in my bedroom.  Then, I’d hike back down to the creek to release them so they could continue life to their own mature ‘frog-hood’ 😉

Along those joyous creek banks of my playland, I could see the mud slides cut into the embankments that were created by the mink and muskrat that lived and played in these same waters I was enjoying.  They would climb up from the creek level to the flat pasture land to bask in the sun or play with their buddies.  At their whim, being playful creatures that they are, they’d then greasily slip down their muddy slide and back into the creek waters below.  Later, in my youth, a gentle farmer named Clarence Johnson, taught me how to set traps for these creatures and we skinned their hides for market to furriers in the town of Faribault, Minnesota.  In those days, I was more interested in making some money for myself; but in the retrospect of age and wisdom, I would have been the wiser to have allowed these little creatures of the creek land to live to a ripe old age, rather than killing them for their fur.

One of the annoyances of creek life, was the usual danger of getting leeches (also known as ‘blood suckers’) stuck to your legs.  After hours of adventures in the water, I’d sometimes come out to the dry land of the surrounding pasture and realize I had as many as four or more ‘blood suckers’ stuck to the skin of my legs.  Their tiny mouth had opened and with itty-bitty teeth had latched into my skin as they began to suck out my blood from the wound they inflicted on me.  Our parents counseled us that it was NOT wise to just yank them off, because their ‘teeth’ may still be attached to my skin.  Dad would usually light a match, blow it out, and then touch the HOT head of the match to the sucking creature, which would make them let go and come off.  Other times, I remember putting salt on the leech (which burnt the creature to where their mouth would open) and then rubbing it off my leg.  All these methods of removal were precautions for preventing any disease the ‘blood sucker’ may have with it and transferring it to you.

I vividly remember how hours and hours would pass while I’d be in a little boy’s wonderland that allowed me to just lay on the banks of Brush Creek while watching the glistening waters ebbing and flowing by for the peaceful enjoyment of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 23rd…“WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL?”

POEM – “Lack Of Having Focus” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Dollars went to scholars, But not to guys like me,

The only way to find them, Was on my bended knee.

In High School days, I found some ways, To put dollars in my pocket,

I carried bags, At the grocery store,  And ran just like a rocket.

My first real job, In High School days, Had its ups and down,

No longer could I play my sports, Or run around the town.

The coach said, “Either you are here, At practice EVERY day”,

“Or don’t bother even coming, There is no other way.”

So, even though I made some bucks, My last two years of school,

I missed out on some memories, That may have been real cool.

I felt the biggest problem, though, Was lack of having focus,

Upon the future, And its goals, There was no “hocus pocus”.

So take my counsel, young one, Find your passion and “take aim”,

Then focus on your life long quest, Don’t wander….it’s so lame.

February 22nd…“WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL?”

It was a hot mid-August afternoon in the summer of 1967 and our family had just moved into a new home on the north side of Battle Ground, Washington.   Quivering with fear in my ‘Beatle Boots’, I had to face the reality of enrolling in a brand new school.   So, with a roll of the steering wheel, my mother brought our 1963 Dodge 330 off of Parkway Avenue into the driveway of the Battle Ground School District Main Campus for the first time.  Just weeks before, our family had left our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota and had driven 1,720 miles to begin a new life in Washington State.

My problem, other than being a pimpled-faced teenager with enough skin oil to grease a frying pan, was that I felt totally lost and overwhelmed by the gigantic layout of this new school campus compared to our much smaller school back home in Minnesota.  Another problem I had was a massive inferiority complex accentuated by a silver-crowned tooth that ‘sparkled’ right in the front of my mouth.  It appeared like I had caught the “Lone Ranger’s” silver bullet in my mouth and was showing it to the world every time I smiled.  I had received this embarrassing ‘trophy’ when I crashed my bike on a gravel road on the last day of 6th Grade back in Minnesota.  My facial accident happened while trying to ride across ‘ice boil’ wash-boarding as I flew down the hill on the gravel road near our farm.  The handle bars ‘jack-knifed’ and threw me forward off of the bike.   I landed on that gravel road directly on my face and broke off that front tooth at a glaring three quarter slant.   Dr. Pirsig, our kind dentist back home, said the best fix would be to cover the broken tooth with a silver crown.  So now, here in this new town and culture, I was super concerned about being made fun of by all these strangers I’d be going to school with now in this new alma mater for education.

The East Junior High Building stood there as a regal classic.  It was a two story brick monument to education and had been constructed in the 1920’s.  At that time, it had been the original High School edifice until the new High School was built nearby in 1953, or so.   Over the years, an impressive growth of ivy vines had crept up the entire brick surface of the east face of the school; giving it an aura of the traditional ‘ivy league halls of education’.  As Mom and I stepped into those massively long hallways, they talked back to our footsteps with corresponding echoes off the walls.  As we approached the door, graced with multi-paned glass windows, of the school’s Main Office, I gave it a pull to open.  The old, dry hinges on that antiquated door needed oiling badly, so the resultant creaking gave the announcement of our presence into the Administration Office.

Looking up from her desk, the brilliant smile of Mrs. Pat Smith (Junior High School Secretary) gave both Mom and I a sense of a warming welcome into this new world of education that would become my alma mater for the next five years.  With a maternal sweetness, Pat Smith, that dear soul of godly womanhood, made us both feel ‘at home’ already as she began to get me registered for the fall season 8th Grade classes of the 1967-68 school year.  Comfort flooded this scared young teenager’s spirit because now I knew that there was going to be a refuge in this dear person that I could go to for answers anytime I needed.  All I had to do was pull open that squeaky office door and find that kindred spirit in the smiling kindness of our Junior High School Secretary, Mrs. Smith.  I felt then, and still do today, that our loving Lord had placed one of His ‘angels’ to greet, set at ease and encourage my soul in the bodily form of this precious lady whom I still count as a dearest friend of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 21st...”WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN GRADE SCHOOL?”

My school grades were similar to the ‘grade’ of the local gravel roads in our area…….low and rough!   School was never easy for me.  One of the reasons, besides my own failures as a person, was the inconsistency of teacher modeling and the mode in which they each chose to educate by.  For some school years, I’d get a darling lady who was so kind, gentle and inspirational in her teaching methods.  I was very eager to please her because of my admiration and respect for her as that year’s adult role model.

Sadly, though, the next year would advance me to another teacher with an entirely different spectrum of personality, traits and expectations.  That type of scene often resulted in nine months of hell for me being under her heel and derogatory accusations.

I’d like to present the analogy of education being a LOT like fishing.   An angler wants to ATTRACT fish to his fishing spot and onto his hook via methods that are colorful, intriguing and even ‘tasty’ for the fish to nibble on.  The same thing goes for a child in the educational setting.  Thankfully, I DID have some educators that emulated the great fishing skills of getting my attention in the vibrant and desirable scope of education.  For those fine educators, I was ‘hooked’ on wanting to learn from their colorful style of teaching.  Alas, though, other teachers used the ‘club’ method of fishing for my attention and ‘bashed’ me over the head with uncaring facts and figures without any inkling of passion or compassion.

After prayer and consensus within our hearts, the mother of my children and I decided that we were going to make a change for OUR children’s education needs.  Therefore, we decided to teach our children within our home……..also known as “Home Schooling”.   We felt that within the walls of our home, the grand lady who gave these children birth and love would be a consistent teaching model for our little ones, year after year.   We saw parallels of education from the Bible as God’s Word says in Deuteronomy 6: 6 & 7….“And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart;  And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.”  Education, for our family, would happen throughout every day and in every way as we lived out our lives and love for God and the children He bestowed upon our lives.

True, no mother is perfect, but, at least in our children’s younger years we wanted to “see their roots established before we set them out in the world to grow”(a quote from another Home Schooling family we know).   Life is always a learning experience, especially for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 20th…“WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER AS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE SCHOOL SUBJECT?”

POEM – “M. A. T. H. = Mental Abuse To Humans” by N. Elliott Noorlun

To this very day, I still quiver in my boots,

To even think of trying, To find them square roots.

And even in, My teenage eye, I’d shudder to think, Of finding Pi.

In my math frustration, Of me oh my why!!??

There never was ever, A simple equation,

That didn’t send me, To a drink libation.

I’d pull my hair, And chew my nails,

Fret for hours, And make up tales.

I’m glad for those folks, The gifted few,

Who can easily add, Past two plus two.

I’ll just keep counting, Fingers and toes,

Cause beyond that, Oh who the heck knows????

February 19th…“WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER AS YOUR FAVORITE SUBJECT IN HIGH SCHOOL?”

From the time I was a toddler listening to my mother sing hymns in church, I have always had a love for music and singing.   As I matured through my young years, I became especially impressed with the power and majestic expression of the human voice through excellent choral music.  As I settled into my new life in southwest Washington State, I entered my High School years there at Battle Ground High School in Battle Ground, Washington.  I was keen to observe their wonderful choral department and paid attention to the man who directed them so well.

Mr. Orrell Peru had an aura about him that quietly commanded respect and allegiance.  Like a magnet, his very life drew me to his persona and integrity.  In my Freshman year, I could not muster the courage to attempt an audition to try to be a part of Mr. Peru’s fine choral department.  Instead, as a member of the audience, I would look forward to observing how he led his choir performances.   He conducted these young voices with a regal, yet humble manner that you could tell was reciprocated by the young members of his entourage.   As a choir, they sensed his loving authority and responded to his direction in an obedient joy of song.

When I finally gained the courage to ask for an audition from this great musical educator, I wanted to impress him.  In my dreams, I envisioned myself as a low-voiced bass singer, so, as he had me do singing scales next to his piano, I tried to make my voice sound basso profundis magnifico……(translated: deep and low magnificence).  In his gentle and honest kindness, Mr. Peru accepted me into his Concert Choir, but gave me some very sage advice, “Elliott, you need to face the fact that you’ll never be a bass singer(lowest range), not even a baritone(the next range up from a low bass).  YOU, young man, are a First Tenor.  Be proud of that fact and be happy with the voice God gave you.  Let your voice be naturally bright and bring the clarity of each note you sing to be enunciated right up front by your teeth.”

To inspire me as a tenor, Mr. Peru encouraged me to listen to and study the singing style of the famous tenor, Mario Lanza (who lived between 1921 till 1959).   I bought many of Lanza’s records and saw many of his movies.  I not only was inspired by Mr. Lanza’s singing, but was captured by the zest for life that this young man had.

Easily, the highlight of my years with the Battle Ground High School Concert Choir was when we staged the Broadway musical, “Camelot”.  It was a lot of hard work and practice, but what sweet memories transpired as we all stepped back into time and fantasy as we told the story, through song, of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, Prince Lancelot and others.  What a marvelous time of song it was for this stage of life for a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 18th…“TELL ABOUT FAMILY REUNIONS IN YOUR CHILDHOOD.”

Insoluble, the union of family; the bulwark of any successful society.  Just as it is from the roots, to the massive trunk of a mighty oak tree, so also a family branches out into generations of ‘leaves’ that provide cooling shade to many that rest within their soft branches of love.

Summer was an ideal time of the year for my mother’s family to return to their roots and enjoy reunions.   It was time, once again, to meet with loved ones that would come from far and wide to reconnect in the oneness that brings identity, purpose and joy within each other’s hearts.

Our black, 1950 Buick Roadmaster rolled up to the curb of the lovely park there in the little village of Scarville, Iowa.  A rich, green canopy of trees draped a cooling shade over the picnic tables soon to be laden with delicious smelling creations from the various family kitchens.

In northern Iowa, at the turn of the century, a dear man named Ole Scar helped to bring this town to life along the new railroad tracks that were pushing across the prairies.  Townsfolk in this new settlement wanted to honor this fellow Norwegian, so they deemed this new plat on the map as SCARville, and thus a town was born.

Also born nearby to this new community, in 1919, was our beloved mother, Clarice.  What an appropriate stage for this particular family reunion to take place.

Our mother, Clarice, and her siblings grew up attending the Scarville School in their little hometown.  There was delight in her eyes for our mother when a number of our family reunions were held in the town and near the school that she held treasured in her memories of youth.

As we Noorlun kids helped unload food from the car for the picnic time, I could hear the happy clanging of horseshoes in my ears from the numerous games being played from the various horseshoe pits.   The game of Horseshoes acted like a magnet for many of the menfolk of our Norwegian clans.  My Uncle Bob Sletten, for instance, got so adept at this game that he could usually get ‘ringers’ (U of shoe connected to stake) in 3 out of 4 throws.   Manly visiting and reminiscing were the staple as teams played each other in the cooling shade of the trees in the park.

My mother shared how someone would ring a bell or wave their arms to call the many families together to a central location in that park.   When the clan was together and quiet, one of our Rogness elders would then open a Bible for the reading of the Holy Scriptures.   That was often followed by singing of one or more of the classic hymns of our Christian faith.  Along with this segment of the family reunion, another of the family elders would have the clan recite the Norwegian Table Prayer.

Here is the translation of what that elder recited in Norwegian…..“Heavenly Father, In Jesus name, To the table we come, To eat and drink according to His Word.  To God the honor, To us the gain, So we have food, In Jesus Name, Amen.”  

Now, with the food blessed, it was a flurry of happy chatter while scrumptious delicacies began flying onto people’s plates and we all began to fill our tummies to the point of joyous, bulbous balloon-sizing!   In order to wash down all this great Norwegian food fare for us kids, there were, seemingly, gallons of Koolaid, milk and ice water.   And, for the adults, there were unending gallons of hot, black coffee held in uncountable thermos jugs around the park.

For the remainder of this special day I witnessed family enjoying laughter, stories of the long ago times and naps being taken in the shade as brisk, warm summer breezes would cool their sweat while young and old napped the afternoon hours away.   We can only wonder what gentle dreams our elders enjoyed during those family reunion nap times.   One can only surmise that, with the distant sound of children playing, our napping elders could see Norwegian family reunions back in the days of their own youth and those golden times they, too, enjoyed.

Even there, in my days of youth, many of the family elders still had a very heavy Norwegian accent to their English.  It was fun for me, as a little boy, to stand at the shoulder of my father, sitting in his lawn chair, and listen to those older folk speak of Norwegian ways in the long ago when THEY were young.

As evening drew near, those family members with farms and dairy herds would round up their brood of children and head home to their farms to milk the cows and feed other livestock.  As our family’s Buick Roadmaster lumbered westward towards our farm and home near Kiester, Minnesota, I pondered on how memories so pleasant as these gave me a happy glow to be a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 17th…“TELL US ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE TELEVISION SHOWS AS A CHILD”

I was just hooking up the last suspender of my bib overalls as I approached the old black and white television set that sat in the corner of our little Living Room on our farm in southern Minnesota.  You young folk might wonder what I mean by the term, “black and white”.  Well, that’s the only two colors that TVs could emit in those days.  Color televisions were still in their infancy and only the rich folk could afford those.

Matter of fact, in my finite childhood mind, I thought life must have been pretty dull in the old days, since I only saw life depicted as just “black & white” on the television’s screen.  Back to the story.  As I turned the knob, in the upper corner, you could hear a click and then a series of electronic groans, zoinks and crackling could be heard inside the appliance as it came to life and eventually would produce a visual image on the screen.  The knob to the left corner was the channel selector.  Even though there were usually about 12 numbers on the dial, I seem to remember that we had only about three television stations in our area to choose from.

Contrary to today’s high technology, the only way we could get a picture to the television set was via a very tall metal pole antenna that stood even higher than our two story farm home.  The pole was attached by metal clamps to the side of the house so that we could use a handle (on the pole) to swing the sky high antenna one direction or another.  There, on the south side of the house, if you turned the pole of the tall roof antenna just to the right direction, you’d be lucky to get a half decent image to come across the television screen there inside the Living Room.  On many occasions, either myself or sister would be sent outside to turn the tall pole antenna while one of our parents would yell instructions from inside the house to turn the antenna “more to the left, or more to the right” till they were satisfied with the television’s picture quality.

It wasn’t just the marvel of electronic wiring inside this appliance box called television that fascinated me, instead, it was the magic of what awaited me on the screen of this device that drew me to adventures of fantasy in my favorite cartoons, other children’s programming and on into the parental favorites of my dad’s Western shows and family variety shows like “The Ed Sullivan Show” or “The Lawrence Welk Show”.

It just wasn’t Saturday night without the family tradition of enjoying “The Lawrence Welk Show” together.  Sometimes, Mom would even bring out the TV trays and we’d all settle into the Living Room so that we could eat our supper and be entertained at the same time by Lawrence and his ‘musical family’.  Wholesome entertainment, at its best, was the music and dancing brought to us each week there in our cozy farm house.   Many years later, when our family lived in Washington State, I’d go over to Mom’s retirement apartment every Saturday evening to have supper, reminisce and watch one of the great reruns of the Welk Show that were then being broadcast over Portland, Oregon’s PBS (Public Broadcasting System) station.

Long before Sesame Street (and other children’s programs) ever aired, there was the fun of “The Captain Kangaroo Show”.   The ‘Captain'(Bob Keeshan) had giant pockets in his suit jacket, so that’s where the ‘kangaroo’ part of his name came into play.  He would pull amazing things from those pockets for either a ‘show and tell’ or to illustrate a story he was about to read to us.  There were puppets to watch, craft projects he’d do, cartoons to see (like “Tom Terrific”).  Of course, Captain’s good friend, “Mr. Green Jeans” was always there to engage in the playtime, as well.  The mythical clubhouse this all occurred in was known as the Captain’s “Treasure House”.  Even the program’s theme music (called “Puffin’ Billy”) still sticks sweetly in my mind to this day.

On another of our father’s favorite TV shows, Marshall Matt Dillon, in all of his tall, male elegance, is seen slowly walking and stalking down the center of a wide street in Dodge City, Kansas.  As the intro music intensifies, the steeled look in his eyes tells the viewers that, at the other end of this street, there is a villainous character threatening the peace of this western town.   At the peak of tension-filled music, Marshall Dillon uses lightning speed to pull his six gun and fires at the evil figure to end this gun fight and start another episode of “Gunsmoke”.   Our dear father, Russell, was transfixed with all that had to do with the Old West.  Therefore, it was another television tradition to watch “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night together as a family.

This list of favorite television shows could go on and on, but I want to take an opportunity to say “THANK YOU” to our local TV man, Mr. Jim Engebretson, for supplying our sweet hometown with televisions and repair services over many of my young years!!!  Whereas, my brother and sister’s generation had enjoyed old time radio, it was my generation that was weaned and preened by the new medium of television and all it held for being the imagination station for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.