January 27th…“DID YOU EVER HAVE AN IMAGINARY FRIEND?”

If the actor Jimmy Stewart could have a giant rabbit as an imaginary friend….I could have hundreds, right?  And that I did.

It’s not that my big brother (11 years older) and big sister (8 years older) didn’t love me, it’s just that they were busy in their own circle of friends and weren’t able to spend as much time with me as they would have liked.  Well, that left me with my little sister to play with.  Here in my adult life, I adore the ground she walks on, but, as was common with most red-blooded American little farm boys…..wellll, girls, in general, had ‘cooties n germs n stinky perms’ and were more of a nuisance than they were worth.

Sooooo, there I was with 120 acres of beautiful farmland to enjoy, a big windbreak of trees around our farmyard and nearby “Brush Creek” to explore.   The ‘three of us’ (me, myself and I)  were gonna turn on the juices of creativity and have some fun.  Reflecting back to those days, rather than mope around about being alone for playtime, I gave the Lord thanks for bequeathing to me a lucid and vibrant imagination which could conjure up an unending passel of partners for playtime.

There I’d be, a mini-“Davey Crockett”, a slinkin’ through our cornfield doing scouting ahead fer Injuns that might attack our farm at any minute.  “Ol Bessie”, my long rifle (which was actually just a long stick) sat in the crook of my arm just a ready to blast them thar varmints from here to Bugtussel.

When winter dumped its massive snowdrifts around our tree windbreak and yard, my imagination would jump to emulate the brave soldiers who fought in “The Battle Of The Bulge” in Europe during World War II.   Barking commands to the invisible battalion around me, we’d slither silently over snowbanks in order to rid the world of those nasty Nazis.

“Little Lady” (our Shetland pony) was often employed in assisting me with my cowboy pals of make believe.  She and I would ride up into our tree windbreak (which were planted in nice straight rows) and imagine how we were gonna build our own complete western town, just like we saw each week on the “Gunsmoke” or “Bonanza” television shows.

There were countless other adventures in my young days that didn’t need batteries, laptops or cellphones to make magic happen.  All it took were the dreams and fun ideas of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 26th…“DID YOU EVER SEE A PRESIDENT OR A VICE PRESIDENT IN PERSON?”

As a happy little farm boy, I seldom ventured more than a dozen miles or so from the lush acreage of our farm and its quaint home.  Ventured, that is, without Dad or Mom driving our 1956 Chevy.  Besides, as a child, I was blissfully ignorant of world news and who was famous, or who was not.  As long as I had my toy trucks n tractors and afternoon cartoons; who needed anything more, right?

My big brother, Lowell, on the other hand, not only SAW the Vice President of our United States, he even cleaned and serviced the Vice President’s chartered DC-3 airliner.  You see, my brother, at that time, worked for “Mankato Regional Airport” in Mankato, Minnesota.  The airport was so small, that Lowell and his partner did pretty much everything that was needed to make that airport functional on a daily basis.  Whether it was doing a baggage check, weather reports, ticket sales, load the plane, clean the plane, even fuel the plane…….they did it all.  With scheduled regularity, a handsome “North Central Airlines” DC-3 airliner would bank down out of that Midwest sky and touch her wheels down on the tarmac of that itty bitty airport runway.  Once the propellers rotated to a stop, the side door of the aircraft was opened by a stewardess and she would let the door vertically hinge open to the ground revealing stairs built into the door itself.    Within a few minutes, sure enough, out of that aircraft came Vice President Hubert Horatio Humphrey, his wife, Muriel, and a large entourage of journalists and guests.  Turns out their son lived there in Mankato and they came, as often as the rigors of his office would let him, to enjoy a happy visit with their family.

Once the Humphreys had left the airport, it was now time for my big brother Lowell and his partner to begin cleaning and servicing the plane for the Vice President’s return trip to Washington, D.C..   It appeared that the party on that aircraft had begun long before the plane touched down in Mankato, cause there were all kinds of party ‘trappings’ all over that airship.  And, some of those ‘things’ left on-board that stage coach of the skies can only be described with a blush and a wink!!! 😉

So said the big brother of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 25th…“AT WHAT AGE WERE YOU ALLOWED TO VOTE?  AND, WHOM DID YOU VOTE FOR IN YOUR FIRST PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION?”

I have often pondered what guidon is flown as the signaling banner that depicts maturity in an individual?  Age alone?  Intellect?  Position in life?  I am sure our forefathers must have mused over those same questions as they determined the blueprint of how, and when, someone should be allowed the privilege to engage in the voting process of this democratic society we call America.

I admire the wisdom of our beloved President, Abraham Lincoln, when he said, “I go for all sharing the privileges of the government who assist in bearing its burdens”.   Lincoln’s input, plus uncountable others, for over a century, eventually led to 1971 and the 26th Amendment to the United States Constitution that granted myself and anyone aged 18 years or older the right to vote in elections.

Countless numbers of my generation felt that if we were old enough to spill our blood in Vietnam (or other conflicts), we were also old enough to have a say in how our government was run via participating in elections.

Therefore, as I was stepping off of the Battle Ground High School stage, after receiving my diploma, in May of 1972, I was also fascinated by the political scene and information leading up my very first Presidential Election in November of that year.   As I stepped into the voting booth for the first time, having joined the Republican Party,  I cast my ballot for Mr. Richard Milhouse Nixon as our next President.   History shares that Nixon won that election in what is known as a ‘landslide’.  He received 520 Electoral College Votes compared to his contender, the Democratic Party candidate (George McGovern) who only garnered 17 Electoral College Votes.

President Nixon’s Vice President was named Spiro T. Agnew.  On a humorous aside, there was a joke going around, at the time, that when Nixon found out who his running mate would be, he told Mrs. Nixon one evening in their bedroom, “Honey!!! I have Spiro T. Agnew!” , to which she responded, “That’s nice dear, just wash your hands and come to bed!” (maybe her thinking was that the soon to be Vice President’s name was some sort of disease? Hehehe!)  Thus transpired the limited politics of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 24th…“WHO WAS PRESIDENT OF OUR UNITED STATES WHEN YOU WERE BORN?”

While I was drawing my first breath of life, in January of 1954, the Honorable Dwight D. Eisenhower was in his first term as President of these grand United States of America.  Earlier in American History, Eisenhower had been the Supreme Allied Commander In Chief that led our troops, and those of the Allied Nations, to Victory in World War II.  “Ike”, as he was affectionately called, then served his country again in the form of President from 1953 until 1961.  To this day, I have immense admiration for this great man’s life.  As I grew into an age of being more aware of our nations history, I greatly enjoyed reading about his overall charm and effective ways of leadership, both on the battlefields of war, and also in civilian life afterwards.  At the time of his death, in 1969 (I was 15 at the time), I remember being deeply saddened by Eisenhower’s passing into eternity.  He was a man of integrity who impacted our fine nation and that of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

ACROSTIC POEM…“Dwight D. Eisenhower” by N. Elliott Noorlun

D…estined to be our leader,

W…ithin his frame of time,

I…nspired by those before him,

G…iven the drive to climb.

H…ero to all by his faithfulness,

T…rained to command by the best,

D…etermined to do what was right for us all,

E…xcelled in his every test.

I…ntimate in ways a true leader should be,

S…tern when occasions arose,

E…uphoric when Victory came to pass,

N…ever gloating o’er his former foes.

H…onored throughout the entire world,

O…bedient the way that he lived,

W...ith steadfast, determined choice of stride,

E…ach one better, thanks to his life,

R…est well, dear patriot you are loved, The choice of America’s pride.

January 23rd…“TELL US ONE OF THE NAUGHTY THINGS YOU DID AS A KID AND GOT AWAY WITHOUT GETTING CAUGHT OR REPRIMANDED.”

“Bwahh ah ah ahhhhhh!!!”, says the tiny tot terror of the little stinker Elliott in his dastardly demented dissertations of despicably dumb dilemmas promulgated during a childhood bereft of better judgement……..at times.

To preface my reason for being my sinister little self, regarding bulls in general, I take you back to a ‘bullish’ incident one night on our farm in southern Minnesota.  My father owned a majestic, muscular mountain of a Holstein bull…..and he was always angry and mean-spirited!! Observing him in his pen in our barn, I remember being struck with fear of this animal’s mighty power and how its furor was embedded in my little boy psyche.

One summer’s night, our family was inside our farm home for the evening and gathered around our kitchen table to enjoy the meal which we called supper.   Our dear other ‘grandpa’, Harry Bauman was enjoying fellowship with us around the supper table.  The peacefulness of that family meal was abruptly interrupted by some horrendous sounds coming from down and inside our darkened barn.  Our dad, Russell, had left the top half of the ‘Dutch-door’ open in the barn for our livestock to enjoy the night breeze for cooling.  Whatever was causing those maniacal, crushing sounds pulled us all from the supper table to look out the screened windows towards the barn.  Illumined by a single yard light on top of a tall pole, we could see the corner of our red barn and what was about to happen next.

We’ll never know what may have ignited his rage, but that angry, male Holstein behemoth exploded out of his holding pen inside that darkened barn and proceeded to destroy his way through the darkened barn aisles and to the lighted opening of the ‘Dutch-door’ at the corner of the building.  In a sense, the bull was hitting his own ‘bull’s-eye’ as he launched over the top of that doorway that was hooked open.  As his muscled, bulky body high-centered on the lower half of the door, his furor took over and, writhing in anger, proceeded to destroy the lower remnant of what once was a door.  The bovine beast, having escaped from his prison, made a hard left turn, in his freedom, and disappeared into the darkness and our orchard that lay to the west of the main farm yard.  Daddy and our dear family friend, ‘Grandpa’ Harry Bauman, trepidatiously left our house on the run into that same darkness to somehow retrieve that snortin’, ‘fire-breathin’ bovine.

With that scene emblazoned on my young mind, I take you now to my naughty incident.   Some many months later, I was fulfilling one of my daily chores of feeding our livestock while Dad milked the main herd of our dairy cows.  As I lifted a bale of alfalfa hay into the manger of a large holding pen of heifers (young cows), I used my short-handled chopper to quickly cut the two twines that held each bale together.  In that same holding pen, Dad kept another younger bull that was tethered to a nose ring connected to a length of chain to keep him under control and to himself.  The chain went from the animal’s nose ring to a big support column of the barn.  Every time I got near that testosterone-laden creature, he’d lunge at me, from the confines of his pen, swinging his snot-nosed head at me.  Partly out of fear, and partly out of “I’ll teach YOU a thing or two”, I flipped the blade of my chopper towards myself and used the wooden handle side of the club as my weapon of choice.  I hauled off and WHACKED that sucker right between the eyes with that hardwood fork handle.

When my fork handle connected with his skull, he went crossed-eyed!!!  But what happened next really wasn’t expected.  That beast shot backwards from the stun of my blow and, when the chain length played out to the nose ring he was connected to, it yanked that ring clear OUT of his nose flesh.  Now there was bull nose blood everywhere!  Ohhhh myyy goodness!!!  I took off like a streak from that spot and was beyond scared……not of the bull, but of what would happen to me if Dad ever found out about the shenanigans of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 22nd…“WHEN YOU NEEDED CORPORAL DISCIPLINE, AS A CHILD, WHICH PARENT CORRECTED YOU, AND HOW?”

Whoooo meee?  Need correcting? Awww pshawww!  Hehehehe! ;o)

Our beloved mother’s correction technique was usually verbal in nature; oh sure, she could break a yardstick or two across our bottoms, but more often her power of correction was in her eyes and the tone of her voice.  Whenever I chose to use inappropriate language or showed a bad attitude, she reminded me of my Christian upbringing with the heavy scolding of, “SHAME ON YA!!!!”.  That, in itself, was a piercing reprimand that impressed my ears and heart in my early youth.

Dad?….now HE was a power to be reckoned with!!!  Like the time I wanted to have a ‘snack attack’ and was perusing the contents of our refrigerator there on the farm.  I’d say I was about 7 years old, at the time.  Mom called out to me from across the kitchen, “Close that refrigerator door, Elliott, and wait for supper or you’ll spoil your appetite!”  Now why should I just gently close the frig door when I can add some drama to the fact that I didn’t get MY way and MY snack, right?  I hauled off and SLAMMED that ice box door so hard, you could hear the clatter of items inside bouncing against the interior refrigerator walls.  At that same instant, Dad LAUNCHED from his chair next to the kitchen table and had me by the back of the neck with one hand and his other muscular hand clamped onto my minuscule butt cheeks!!  I became an instant member of the ‘NORWEGIAN AIRBORNE BOTTOM BEATER BRIGADE’.   Now horizontal in flight, ‘Commander Dad’s’ primary mission was to fly me through the air and land us in a corner bedroom of the house.  Upon ‘touchdown’, and, as an added echelon of correction, he disembarked my pants from my body so that his giant, HARD, calloused hand could cause great rippling and jello-like palpitations upon my gluteus maximus (Latin for: The last part that goes over the fence)!!  YOWSA!!!

Another ‘smarting’ occasion comes to mind when I was about 10 years old.  When I got home from school each day, it was my responsibility to get my chore clothes and boots on and help feed our Holstein dairy herd while Dad did the milking and other tasks around the barn.  Besides our cows, I was responsible for carrying buckets of grain to feed our pigs in the Hog House.  Those were just some of the family expectations for this little Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  Well, on this occasion, after changing from school to work clothes, I meandered downstairs and sauntered over to the old “Zenith” black & white TV in the corner of our Living Room.  I thought to myself, “I’ll just tune in ‘Bart’s Clubhouse’ and watch ONE cartoon before going to do my chores”.   Well, you guessed it, one cartoon turned into MANY and I lost track of time.

Suddenly, I heard the screen door at the back of the house nearly ripped off its hinges as Dad came storming inside!  Low and behold, it was my fire-breathing father taking on his persona known as the ‘BIG BAD BELLOWING BUTT BOOTER’!!  At the top of his lungs, Dad yelled, “Whaddaya think your doin’ wasting time in here watching cartoons while those cows are out in the barn MOOOING their heads off cause they’re hungry???!!!”  In that split second, this quivering lump of terrified boy began to tenderly traverse my way past the seething tower of Dad on my way out to the barn.  My fuming father cocked his work boot and caught my butt cheeks, causing me to be catapulted in mid-air.  My feet were already spinning as I touched down on that linoleum floor and shot off like a rocket down to the barn to get my belated chores done.  The comic book character “Superman”, himself, could not have matched the warp speed with which I flew to get livestock fed and other tasks accomplished that evening.  For the rest of that night in the barn with Dad I was on edge and on the watch for him.  The throbbing pulsations of his boot print in my posterior motives (my behind) would make me always face him as he’d pass by so as not to reveal my tender behind to another POW from his ‘punter’.

Those correcting experiences (notice I do NOT use the word “punishment”), in our young life, were not all that often.  All of us children learned to respect the power that our father had over us as the patriarch of our family.  Those type of moments were just part of the paradigm shift or learning curve of becoming a man and, overall, we knew Dad and Mom loved us deeply and fulfilled their God-given role of correcting us when we strayed from that which we knew was right.  In the majority of cases, all Dad had to do to correct us was to wave his big pointer finger at us and tell us to “BEHAVE!”  For all of us kids knew, that behind that pointer finger was a BIGGER HAND of correction that could be employed, if necessary.  Such were the needed corrections of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 21st…“WHAT DID YOU DESIRE, AS A CHILD, THAT TURNED OUT TO BE A DISAPPOINTMENT IN REALITY?”

POEM – “My Tobacco Fuss With Chet And Russ” by N. Elliott Noorlun

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When I was young, I do recall, The smell of “Viceroys” and “Pall Mall”,

“Camels” puffed with many a joy, Were Daddy’s favorites, So says this boy.

But if the dollar bills were slim, “Prince Albert’s” can satisfied his whim.

He’d sprinkle it on, A thin flat paper, Then with a lick, Of spit and vapor,

Would tightly make it, Into a roll, And strike a match, From off his sole,

To light the end, And puff away, To calm Dad’s nerves, From farming’s fray.

Now one day Chet, Came o’er to talk, While he and Dad, Did did start to walk,

Chet finished off, His tobacco chew, Then the “Copenhagen”, Can he threw,

Aside while they, Walked outta sight, I thought I could, I thought I might,

Just try this stuff, Chet loved so dandy, He seemed to think, That snuff was candy.

Well, I reamed out, What was left inside, And popped it in, My mouth to hide,

Instead of candy, To my surprise, This nasty stuff, Lit up my eyes!!!

I SPIT AND SPIT!,  But not for pleasure, This truly was NOT, My kind of treasure!

My first and last, Chew of towbakky, Whoever does this, Is just plain wacky!!

Some years went by, And this young fool, Still thought cigarettes, Were kinda cool.

I’d imitate uncles, Who smoked cigars, I’d ‘puff’ candy cigarettes, While riding in cars.

Till one morning when, I heard my dad, Coughing and choking, Oh so bad.

I asked, “Daddy, do you have a cold?”, “No Son”, he said, “It’s time you were told”,

“This cough is from smoking, Don’t ever start!”, “I’m telling you this, From sincere heart!”

As the years have passed, I’ve pondered his word, The wisest advice, I’ve ever heard,

I can treasure each lung full, Of fresh clean air,

I’d learned a lesson from them, In the way back there.

January 20th…“DID ANY RELATIVES EVER LIVE WITH YOU?”

Wrapped in childhood innocence and permeated with the gullibility of a tiny heart, I was only able to discern those things in life that I could perceive through the lens of a little boy’s eyes and ears.  The how or why of adult family dynamics were beyond my scope of understanding when it came to ‘knowing the whole story’ of how my cousin, Lyle J. Noorlun, came to live with us on our farm for about a year or so.  What I DID surmise, was that he must have been impressed with the way of life in the country versus the big city life he had experienced up to that point in Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota.  Lyle was somehow able to finagle his father (our dad’s older brother, Ray) to allow his permission to live with us on the farm of “Uncle Russ” in Kiester, Minnesota.

From my juvenile observation, our handsome cousin may have been around seventeen years young when he came to be part of the ‘southern’ Noorlun family farm.  His dark, wavy hair framed a very handsome young face and was combed in the classic style of the late 1950’s.  A few reckless curls of his dark tresses hung over his forehead for, what I reckon, was the added effect of luring young ladies to his side.  And, I wouldn’t be surprised that he likely had more than a few feminine ‘takers’ while attending our local high school.

Cousin Lyle and I shared the smallest of the two bedrooms that made up the second story of our almost century old farmhouse.   The springs and mattress of our bed were so old and sunken, that the two of us often rolled into each other during the night as gravity would take it’s course.  I guess we could have sang the old cowboy song, “Down In The Valley” when it came to THAT sleeping experience.

Being the impressionable little boy that I was, Cousin Lyle wowed me each morning as he’d climb outta that swayback bed and dropped to the floor for his regimen of push-ups and sit-ups.  Repetitions would reach 50, or more, for each exercise and, as a result, that cousin of mine was one buff-lookin’ guy in his slim and trim physique.

Big sister Rosemary and I counted it a delight to climb into the cab of our pickup when it came to going to school each morning.  You see, when our father would give his permission, Cousin Lyle loved to sparkle up our vintage 1950 black Ford pickup truck.  Like any youngster in love with the new passion of independence and a vehicle, Lyle would doll up the truck with big, colorful foam dice hanging from the rear view mirror.  He even had an elaborate plastic spoon collection that was accrued from the tasty malts and shakes he consumed at our local “drive-inn” eatery that resided just off of Highway 22 on the east side of our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  His spoon creation was tucked into and above the rear window frame of the truck in a fantail fashion with the tallest spoons to center and graduating down to the smaller spoons at the sides.  Lyle’s method of truck decorating may have seemed strange to some, but then again, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure”.

Like the winds of family that brought Lyle to our farm, so also came a wind of change that whisked him back to his home in the “Twin Cities” of Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota.  Whether good or bad, the future awaited new adventures for this cousin of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 19th...”SHARE A STORY ABOUT ONE OF YOUR UNCLES”.

His red jump suit truly fit the flamboyant personality of this man who was larger than life in my young eyes.  Uncle Byron J. “Barney” Hollembaek married our father’s sister Ileen.   Not only was Barney a big, brawny mountain of a man, but he always impressed me with his self-confidence levels that appeared to empower him to take on the world and conquer all that life threw at him.

After serving as a Marine in the South Pacific during World War II, Barney and his bride made their home in the town of Palmer, Alaska.  Eventually, our uncle started a business in that town that sold farm supply products.  When the need arose to resupply his farm store, or pickup big machinery down in the ‘Lower 48’, Barney would sometimes drop by our farm, near Kiester, Minnesota, on his way to buy tractors, harvesting combines or livestock.

After our family had moved to Washington State, Barney came to visit us in Battle Ground, Washington while on a business trip in March of 1972.  His son, Scott, had left his hotrod 1969 Mustang in our garage while on a construction job in Hawaii.  Instead of flying back to Alaska, Barney was going to drive Scott’s car back up to Alaska via the Alaskan/Canadian Highway (also known as the Al/Can).  My uncle asked me if I’d like to go with him on the journey to keep him company.  “YOU BET!!” , I said happily.  I was already on Spring Break from school, so everything was set.  We pointed that muscle-bound Mustang northward and on to adventure.  Having never been to either Canada or Alaska, I was thrilled to be able to experience this fun time!

Two events (among many) were happily seared into my memory while enjoying these moments with Uncle Barney and his family.  The first adventure, once we arrived in Palmer,  was to ride my very first snowmobile at night with my Cousin Erik.  The snow was powder perfect on that ebony night and there was a majestic full moon above us as we raced our snowmobiles over their very large farm fields with throttles wide open.  It was really spellbinding to see the moon’s bright glow reflect off of that large expanse of snow.  It made the nighttime world around us seem almost as bright as day.   On another night, the second major event I enjoyed was the spectacular “Northern Lights” (Aurora Borealis) in the Alaskan sky above us.  I was captured in absolute awe of this colored magnificence in the frigid skies above.  Wave after undulating wave of greenish blue hues pulsated as if their light show was a symphony to the angels above.  Entranced, I was.  Later on in life, I found out that these effects in the sky are generated by electrical impulses in the ionized air of the atmosphere.  “Borealis” was the Greek god of the north winds and these luminous lights sure seemed to dance upon that wind of his.   Thank you, Uncle Barney, for being a happy part of the life of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 18th…“TELL US ABOUT A FAVORITE AUNT.”

‘Her Highness’ made an elegant entrance into our farm house Living Room where I stood.  The ‘Princess’ had just arrived from the faraway castle called “New York, New York”.   Spellbound by her beauty, I had to pinch myself to the realization that this great lady of loveliness was my very own Aunt Lillian Noorlun Greenspun.   She was the youngest of my farmer father’s sisters and it was an utter delight to have her and her handsome husband, Gene, visiting us on our farm.

Due to the 1,200 miles between our farm and ‘The Big Apple’, we seldom had the pleasure of visits from Auntie Lillian and Uncle Gene.   When those few times of vacations to our farm did occur, it was like having royalty among us.

I, for one little boy, was completely smitten by this tall, blonde gorgeous Norwegian woman with blue eyes that could cool you in summer and warm you in the winter.  I would offer to speculate, that in the course of her young years, that she coyly employed those blue, sparkling orbs to warm up many a young man’s aspirations in the romance department.  I recall family sharing that, with her curvaceous charms and sharp street savvy, she quickly made a name for herself in the modeling world there in the steel and concrete canyons of New York which was the capitol of modeling agencies there on the East Coast.

Lillian and her handsome husband, Gene Greenspun, made for a striking couple.  Uncle Gene was a designer and manufacturer for the “Knickerbocker Toy Company” there in New York.  Together, these two dear hearts embarked on many an adventure within the sky-high steel stalagmites of dizzying office buildings there in the city.   A profitable adventure of theirs took place one night at a card game with some friends.  Gene had an idea for a new ‘toy’, so to speak.  His idea was to create bedroom slippers that would resemble a human foot.  Lillian was barefoot while playing cards that evening and Gene told her to keep playing while he crawled under the table with some modeling clay.  He began to carve an animated likeness of his wife’s feet into the clay.   Gene over-exaggerated the clay foot model to look cuter and then put it into production for marketing.   They labeled their new creation, “Crazy Feet” and the slippers came out in multi-colored pliable plastic with a soft, fuzzy lining for foot comfort.

To promote their new fun product, Lillian modeled their “Crazy Feet” slippers for a professional photographer, who then spread the word to the industry and advertisers that these fun slippers were now on the market for sale.  On one of their special visits to our farm, Gene and Lillian brought “Crazy Feet” for us kids to enjoy for our very own.  My sister, Candice, STILL has her pair tucked gently away as a token of our auntie’s kindness to us.

Our stunning Aunt Lillian was a master logophile.  In other words, she LOVED words 🙂  A hobby of hers was to actually read dictionaries like some folks read a novel.  Matter of fact, while she and Gene would ply through the city streets on his motorcycle, she could be found on the back of that cycle, making use of the time by reading a dictionary resting on Gene’s back.  Lillian became so adept at the use of our English language, that she’d pretend to ‘play dumb’ to Gene’s business friends and entice them to play the word game, “Scrabble”, for money instead of points.  Whether it was a dollar a point or whatever amount, these business associates were gullible enough to bet their bucks as they gambled against her.  Auntie would ‘lead on’ those poor suckers and ‘take them to the cleaners’ by her wily and witty ways.  When one is fluent in every word imaginable that begins with Q, X and Z, ………well, by the end of each game, she’d smile all the way to the bank. 😉

Alas, Aunt Lillian, our voluptuous vision of loveliness succumbed to stomach cancer at the tender age of 43.  Her story of life’s last chapter is one of many other fellow cancer patients chronicled in books written by Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross.   I recall seeing a photo of Lillian, towards the end of her life, in that book that shows her sitting in the back seat of a car; gaunt and thin with a large distended tummy from the massive cancer that was consuming her.  In the book(s), she’s referred to as ‘Beth’, because in later life, I found out she really didn’t like her birth name of Lillian.  Either way, I was touched by my auntie ‘princess’ and she made an indelible impression on the life of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.