November 19th…“DO YOU THINK YOU WOULD’VE FOLLOWED IN YOUR FATHER’S PROFESSION OF FARMING, IF YOU HAD STAYED IN MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “I Should Have”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

I should have followed my father, In choice of life career,

Of tilling the soil, in farmer’s toil, On the peaceful land so dear.

Or instead, A lighthouse keeper, Alone with the beautiful sea,

With a seagull’s song, Naught can go wrong, When it’s just the light and me.

I’m a sojourner seeking solace, Away from human strife,

What’er could have been, Tis the present I’m in, In dealing with daily life.

So remember this goal, As you seek your work,

Whether husband, child or wife,

Love what you do, To yourself be true blue,

And you’ll ne’er ‘work’ a day in your life! 😉

November 18th…“HOW DID YOUR PARENTS CHOOSE YOUR FIRST AND MIDDLE NAMES?”

Nathaniel Bradford Noorlun COULD have been my name, but not.  It was just one of many possibilities that my dear parents cogitated upon during my mother’s pregnancy as 1953 rolled on and early 1954 emerged.  The great William Shakespeare once wrote, “What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”  You see, there’s a LOT of importance in what we’re tagged with for a name.

Through time immemorial, nearly every set of young parents have wanted to help set the destiny of the new life given to them by forging a combination of first and middle names that would embody the hopes and dreams they have for the tiny new life laying before them that God graciously bestowed as His gift and reward.  Even the Holy Scripture celebrates this in the Book Of Psalms Chapter 127 and Verse 3 (New American Standard Version)….”Behold, children are a gift from the LORD, the fruit of the womb is a reward.”  So, even though I was hollerin’ up a storm, in those early days of 1954, my cherished parents had my best interests at heart by getting my life off to a good start with a good name.

Farming was a rewarding, but rugged profession for our father, Russell, that oftentimes resulted in injuries to his spine, shoulders, etc..  The daily rigors of heavy lifting, wrestling obstinate animals and muscling cumbersome machinery ……all the above took their toll on our hard-working father’s back.  To find relief from those pains of farming, our dad periodically traveled to the city of my birth, Blue Earth, Minnesota.  In a quiet neighborhood of that fair city, there resided a chiropractor by the name of Doctor Elliott Eugene Collison.   Dr. Collison practiced his profession out of an office within his home there.  Dr. Collison must’ve been a man of high moral fortitude and character because our farmer father greatly admired this kind man who knew how to adjust our dear daddy’s back to alleviate his pain and let him return to a healthier life on the farm.  For, as anyone knows who’s been their own boss, there’s no ‘calling in sick’ on a farm; you work through the pain until the job’s done.  The glowing way that our dad talked about Dr. Collison, you’d think the man was even better than ice cream, itself.  Dad’s admiration for his care-giver led him to share with the doctor one day…. “Ya know, Doc, if I ever have another son, I’m gonna name him after YOU!!!”   It’s quite a compliment to know that your name will carry on into another’s generation by the way you lived your life in THIS generation.  On top of all the attributes and accolades that this dear man of chiropractic medicine earned, it should also be known here that he was COMPLETELY BLIND.

Our dear mother, Clarice, liked the flow and significance of the name, Nathaniel, for her new son.  The meaning of this autograph is drawn from the Hebrew language and means, “Gift Of God”.   As she pondered that first name for me, she considered it to be a bit lengthy, so decided she’d shorten it to Nathan, which, in Hebrew, means “Gift”.  Being the empathetic wife she was, she knew how much our dad wanted to call me, Elliott.  As she pieced and arranged those names in her heart, she felt that Elliott Nathan Noorlun just didn’t have the ‘ring’ to it on a birth certificate, so as a final compromise, of sorts, she and Dad agreed that Nathan would be my first name and Elliott my middle.  After all, it DID have a better flow in pronouncing my life ‘tag’.

True, it HAS been a bit of a life challenge for me, over the years.  There it was, I had a first name that I didn’t use, unless forced to do so in school or business dealings, yet, I always had a special feeling of being recipient of a cognomen related to a fine man that my father admired greatly.   Looking at it lightheartedly, I tease folks that they can call me anything they want, just don’t call me LATE FOR DINNER!! 🙂   So says the appellation of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 17th…“DID YOUR BIG SISTER EVER HAVE TO TEACH YOU A LESSON THE HARD WAY ON YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA?”

‘Gatling Gun Gertha’…..yup, THAT would’ve been an excellent alias for our big sister, Rosemary Arlone Noorlun! That elder sister of ours could load her ‘cartridge magazine’ (her long ‘arm of the law’) with packed snowballs just about as fast as a wink and then rapid fire them, like the old Gatling Gun of olden days, with precise accuracy to take out a snow opponent. On this snowy day and in this certain case, the opponent was ME!!!

Rosie’s power punch prowess was able to shoot my winter cap right off of my head and machine-gunned me into submission as she taught me a much needed lesson of life.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My big sister truly adored this little bundle from Heaven when I popped into the world in January of 1954. I’m told she fawned all over her tiny new baby brother and became like a little mother to me in so many ways. It must’ve been a big help to our beloved mother to have a little babysitter, so to speak, in our very willing sister, Rosemary.

I’m told that when I finally came of school age and had to ride the bus to school in Kiester, Rosie made it plain and clear to all the older boys on that bus. “Watch out, you guys!! This is MY little brother and if I find out you’ve been bothering him, I’ll pulverize ya!!!” She was a triple treat in the sense that not only was she our mother’s right-hand babysitter, but she was also my guardian angel and the familial one who would mete out justice to anyone who caused me heartache on that school bus.

In the Old Testament of the Bible, Proverbs Chapter 3 and Verse 12 says, “For whom the LORD loves He corrects, Just as a father the son in whom he delights”.

Years had passed and I was about 6 or 7 years old at the time of this incident. Since my father wasn’t around to witness and correct what transpired on that snowy day, sister Rosemary was destined to be the corrector of what she saw as unacceptable behavior by myself to little sister. On that fateful day, my little sister Candice and myself were just outside our kitchen window playing near our ‘snow mountain’. That ‘snow mountain’ came into existence because our dear neighbor, Louie Heitzeg, had recently created that ‘mountain’ from when he cleared out our family’s yard with his tractor/loader after a big snowstorm.

It was a clear, but noisy winter’s day as the wind whipped around our farm house and throttled past little sister and I as we played near our ‘snow mountain’ together. You can call it the ‘pecking order of life’, or whatever you deem best, but I became the ‘mean widdo kid’ as I took the advantage over my little sister and began pummeling her with one snowball after another. Poor little darling, she started crying, of course. She was my victim and I was, to my shame now, enjoying my temporary power-trip over her. The noise of the wind whistling by, plus the crying of my little sister muffled the sound of my BIG sister sneaking up on me from behind. She had witnessed this act of injustice through the kitchen window and was about to become my judge, jury and executioner.

Out she came in complete stealth and had loaded her ‘Gatling Gun’  (her long arm) with a massive amount of snowballs. In a complete surprise attack she unleashed her feminine fury at me. Not only did she shoot off my winter cap, but at least one (or more) of her blazing snowball ‘bullets’ hit me point blank, square in the face. I could feel both of my nostrils now PACKED with snow! Now it was ME who was crying!!! With little sister crying in the background, I could hear Rosemary’s condemning taunts to me as each ‘snow-bullet’ found its mark on me as she bellowed…… “How do YOU like it NOW?” “NOW, how does it feel?” “SHAME on you for treating our little sister that way!!!”

There we were, a tearful twosome……sweet little sister, Candi, crying because of my selfish, bullying behavior, and myself, crying because of having been the recipient of a disciplining justice that was carried out by our big sister who loved us both deeply enough to see that I, as her beloved little brother, was corrected to know what right choices I needed to make in the future to better show love to the little sister of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 16th…“DID YOU EVER EXPERIENCE FROSTBITE, AS A LITTLE BOY, ON YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA?”

A trillion snow diamonds were awakened by the frost-imbued sunlight of that winter’s morning. I bundled my little boy’s body for an excursion into the white expanse of our 120 acres of arctic adventure that existed for me to enjoy on our farm northwest of Kiester, Minnesota. I was infused with the fascination that, with every step and tilt of my head, a new treasure trove of brilliant ‘snow jewels’ sparkled and beckoned me to feel richer than old King Solomon himself. To my festive imagination, I owned Minnesota’s storehouse of frozen gems.

From the time of my birth to being the ripe old age of about 8 years old, or so, our sweet mother, bless her heart, had acquired an overwhelming abundance of winter-proofing paraphernalia for me to wear from head to foot. From my first toe entering my set of long-johns, all the way to the multiple layers of sweaters, coats, gloves, scarves and heavy mittens…….I was one extremely turgid, tiny toddler. Added to this menagerie, were my shoes inside my heavy, rubber winter boots. By golly, I looked like a shrunken version of the Frankenstein monster as I waddled out the back porch door and into the below freezing temperatures. But, after physically adjusting to this very warm, layered lifestyle, I soon found my gait and was on my way for fun.

As this minuscule midget meandered merrily along, I couldn’t help but notice that the crispy-clear morning I started with had quickly dissipated and was fast being replaced by gray skies that brought with them a tempest wind that began to show it’s own brand of voice, as if wailing a winter war cry. After tromping in the snow around the immediate farmyard near our cozy home, I set off hiking down to the cow-lane that ran parallel with the gravel road adjacent to our property. It was along that lane that I discovered that barbed wire could ‘sing’!  With the ensuing blizzard around me, I encountered higher and higher snow drifts as I traversed that fence-line. Every attempted step I made to the crusted surface of snow resulted in my body sinking into the snow up to my thighs and hips. What was intriguing to my young ears, though, as I struggled for each step, was a three-part harmony, of sorts, in the way the screeching wind played upon the three top strands of barbed wire that ran from post to post in our fence-line; making them ‘sing’ or ‘whistle’ in various scales depending on the velocity of the wind at a given moment. The storm was singing to me in it’s own unique way.

Oblivious to the time I had spent on this frigid adventure, I eventually noticed that I could no longer feel the piercing cold in my feet anymore. I thought it a bit strange, a new phenomenon for me, yet I decided to go on a bit farther in my quest. Eventually, though, I thought it best to trod-n-plod my way back to our farm home and its warm refuge. As I de-layered myself and stepped into the warmth of our country kitchen, I told my dear mom about the fact that I could no longer feel my feet. With a terse word and concerned look to her caring face, she informed me of the dangers of something called ‘frostbite’.   In her wisdom, she counseled that it was a good thing I came home when I did, for this type of ‘frostbite’ was in its early stages and, hopefully, was able to be remedied without further damage to my toes or feet.

Our mother, Clarice, instructed me to sit sideways, across the soft arms of our dad’s large ‘easy chair’, and tenderly place my bare feet on the very warm exterior surface walls of the furnace that sat in our family Living Room. Since I initially had no feeling in my feet, she cautioned me stringently to NOT let my feet sit on that warm furnace wall for more than a few seconds at a time. If I left them sizzling on that hot surface too long, I’d end up burning my feet instead of helping them thaw and come back to feeling once again. So, to pass the time in this therapy session, what better thing was there for a little boy to do but run across the room and turn on the television set as I watched cartoons for a fun, long time. All in all though, even with my frostbite, I thought this had been a grand day! A fence actually ‘sang’ to me, then I had seen God’s ‘diamonds’ in the snow and I now got to watch lots of cartoons while the feeling came back into the feet of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

December 12th…“WAS THERE A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS TREE THAT IMPRESSED YOU AS A TINY TIKE?”

POEM – “My Oh Me, A Metal Christmas Tree!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

My very first Christmas, Was a bit of a bore,

Having ‘popped out’ in 1954.

I could maybe crawl, Like a swaddled log,

While others celebrated, ‘High on the hog’!!!

But then came Christmas ’55,

I’m awake and aware, And ready to jive.

I posed in my Cousin Marc’s new swing,

I really enjoyed this Christmas thing!!

Big sister and brother, Smiled on each other,

As each present was sweetly revealed.

Just then I saw, Uncle Del’s ‘magic tree’,

And inside, I just could’ve squealed!!

My, oh me, A metal Christmas tree,

Aluminum glory to behold!

And plugged in, beneath, Was a four-colored wheel,

That a light shown through, So bold.

Round the wheel turned, As bright light burned,

From red, to green, to blue.

And as gold came around, I uttered no sound,

Just lost in each grand Christmas hue.

Over the years, The Christmas tree cheers,

Came in styles, big and small, For the times.

But family together, In wintry weather,

Made Christmas the best of all climes.

November 15th…“PLEASE SHARE WITH US ABOUT YOUR MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER.”

POEM – “Norwegian Queen Of Our Clan”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Amanda, oh sweet Amanda,

Norwegian queen of our clan.

From my life’s first start, I could sense her heart,

And became her devoted fan.

From Vats, Norway, Her parents came,

To America’s teeming shore,

In search of all, Our land could give,

As young family grew more and more.

Another page of life did turn, Come 1917,

When Amanda then, Became the bride,

Of Clarence, Young and lean.

Four children from this union came,

Upon that Iowa farm,

Each one imbued, With traits passed on,

From Amanda’s loving charm.

Yet, life’s not always sunshine, Storm clouds arrived one day,

Amanda had Tuberculosis, And would have to live away,

From her precious children, Who loved her so,

And from her cozy country farm,

But, in those days, Those were the best ways,

To prevent her loved ones harm.

Such a stalwart heart, Amanda possessed,

Though mingled with many a tear,

Her precious darlings, Now so far away,

Were lonely and prone to fear.

Our mother told of long car trips,

For to see her mother she’d crave,

Yet Amanda was kept at a distance,

From her window she only could wave.

No doubt, As a mother, Her tears must’ve flowed,

For her children, So close, Yet so far.

But thanks to her faith, In our wonderful Lord,

She endured till her health shined at par.

Our Clarice adored, Her precious mother,

Their kindred spirits entwined.

With praises galore, From love’s richest store,

Her deep respect for Amanda shined.

For the rest of her days, Our mother would share,

To prevent TB, And because she’d care,

Amanda would open, Each window and door,

To let the wind, Sweep out germs galore.

And even though cancer, Crept up on her life,

After faithfully being, A loving wife,

Our Amanda flew “Home”, 1967,

When our Norwegian queen, Did rejoice in Heaven.

So for you, Who are young, I share this tale,

So that you’ll remember, And without fail,

Remember Amanda, And her virtues kind,

The best grandmother, I could ever find 😉

November 14th…“WHAT KIND OF GAMES DID YOU PLAY INSIDE YOUR FAMILY’S DAIRY BARN, OR UP ABOVE IN THE HAYMOW?”

Muffled girl screams, followed by laughter, emanated from the dark, straw tunnel maze.  The ‘trap’, in that dark tunnel, had been sprung by our mischievous big brother, Lowell.   The ‘victims’????….our girl cousins visiting from Austin, Minnesota.  We Noorlun kids were sovereigns over a marvelous labyrinth of tunnels that were created from fragrant, oat straw bales.  The location of that happy pandemonium was upstairs in the haymow of our handsome, red barn there on our farm just three miles northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.  The architect of that happy goldmine of fun times was our beloved brother, Lowell Ross Noorlun.

Long before the days of digital dependency for playtime, we youngin’s had real fun on our farm.  Our manly, muscular and mature big brother came up with the awesome idea of using straw bales (and a few long boards) to create golden tunnels for us to explore and enjoy.  Rich we were, but not in money.  Instead, we were rich in the gold of loving memories with our elder sibling.  For those who are a bit foreign to farming ways, our father, Russell, like all good farmers, was wanting to provide a soft bed for his animals to sleep on throughout the winter and rest of the year, as well.   Here is how he procured that bedding.   After his oat fields were harvested, there were the remnants of yellow oat stalks laying over those many acres that the oat seeds used to grow on.

That yellow straw was very soft, in comparison to the green alfalfa that was fed to our livestock, so Dad would pull a rake behind our tractor to create windrows of the straw and then bale it into rectangular bales that we put up in the haymow of our big barn.  The straw bales were kept to themselves in the front 1/4th of the haymow, near the giant roll-down door.  As needed for bedding, we would toss some straw-bales to the lower barn floor.  Picking them up by their two twine ropes, we’d carry them to the pens and other areas where fresh bedding was needed.  We’d break them open, spread them around evenly and then our Holsteins (and other animals) could have a clean, warm place to sleep each night.

Our ‘Captain Of Creativity’, brother Lowell, began pulling certain straw-bales out of a straight line length of bales, then twisting the bales, he’d set them across the opening he just created.  This created a tunnel for us to crawl through.  To create a ‘room’, big brother would pull out a bunch of bales to create an open square area.  To make a roof/ceiling for our straw room, brother would lay some boards across the large, open ‘reach’ and then re-stack bales on top of the boards, thus creating a room of our very own to crawl around inside.

Here’s where the shenanigans and fun times ramped up.  It was easier to explore the straw tunnels with a flashlight, but it was also challenging to see if we could remember the turns and rooms in the tunnels by heart and ‘go the distance’ in the dark.  If anything, we figured our head would just bump into a darker-than-night corner and we’d just have to turn a new direction, ya?   One day, though, we heard that our sweet girl cousins were coming to visit us on the farm from their city home about 50 miles away.  Whether the genesis of this next idea came from Lowell, or from my little sister and I, that I don’t recall.  What DID happen though, was big brother dived into our tunnel and took residence in the ‘room’ along the path of the tunnel.  He had his flashlight with him, but when he got into his ‘spider’s den’, he shut off the flashlight and waited for his victims to come crawling blindly along the tunnel darkness.

Brother took Candice and I into his confidence about the trick that was about to transpire.  “Have Brenda and Val come up and go through the tunnels without a flashlight!  I’ll be waiting in the room for them to come crawling by!”   Sure enough, my maternal Aunt Beverly and family rolled into our farm yard in their handsome, blue 1957 Chevrolet and visiting commenced as we (except Lowell) greeted them all.  Like a spider waiting patiently for a fly, Lowell hunkered down in the ‘room’.   As us kids arrived inside the barn, Brenda and Val Smith climbed the haymow ladder, with little sister and I, and we all entered the haymow to show them this cool tunnel we created.  Trepidatiously, our darling cousins fell for the bait and started to crawl through the dark straw tunnel, in total blackness………all of a sudden, “BLAHHHH!!!”, bellowed brother Lowell!!!  As he heard the girls crawl past his room, he reached out in the blackness to grab the girls as he simultaneously flicked ON his flashlight!!!  Scream good, they DID, and laugh good we all did in this happy remembrance of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 13th…“DID YOU HAVE ANY TELEVISION COWBOY HEROES WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY IN THE LATE 1950’S AND 1960’S?”  

Puffs of couch dust could be seen floating in the rays of Saturday morning sunlight that came streaming through our farm’s Living Room windows.  Being the armchair cowboy that I was, I was earnestly bouncing on the edge of the couch cushions as I rode my imaginary stallion next to Roy Rogers as we made earnest chase after those dastardly villains attempting to evade justice.  Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, The Lone Ranger, Sky King and other valiant heroes of mine could always count on this lil’ hombre to be their faithful sidekick in the quest to bring peace and justice to the endless horizons of the “Wild West”.

Something kinda perplexed me though, in those tiny wannabe cowboy days.  For one thing, life must’ve been pretty boring back in the old days of history.  Ya wanna know why?  Everything was only black and white….what a monotonous world that must’ve been.  I mean, in the reasoning of my kid brain, the whole world must’ve been that way, cause all the old photos were black and white.  Even our Zenith television in the corner of our farm house Living Room was only emitting black and white images.  I mean, doesn’t that fit kid logic?  In the here and now, I could see my immediate world around me in color.  So, to my infant-sized mind, something must’ve been missing in the old days, cause everything seemed to be only two colors…….black and white.   And, being that us little people, during that time frame of existence, take life quite literally,  I posed another question to my mini-brain………How in the world did Roy Rogers (and his friends) get INSIDE that little television box??   I remember, toddling around to the back side of the TV to see how they got inside that thing and all I could see were glowing television tubes, wires and a lot of hot air coming from that electrical contraption.   If my cowboy heroes WERE inside that glowing globe……..how in the world were they gonna get OUT??? 😉

Now, like any respectable puny, pugnacious purveyor of law and order will tell ya, “Ya gotta have a horse to chase the bad guys!!”  So, for this farm boy, I had two choices  of equine excellence.  One choice was my Shetland pony, “Little Lady”.   But during those long Minnesota winters, “Little Lady” spent most of her time in our barn staying warm and cozy, rather than me saddling her up and making her lunge through massive snowbanks in our farmyard.  So, in her place, my dad had an awesome horse swing, hung by ropes from rafters, in our barn.  After my cowboy shows on television were done for the day, I’d trudge my way through the snowdrifts, mount my wooden swinging steed, and continued ‘riding into the sunset’ with all my cowboy heroes.

Not only was I impressed with all my cowboy heroes, I was also intrigued by the powerful majesty of the handsome horses they rode in all those glorious western adventures.  In a type of split personality, I would, in my outdoor playtimes, become both horse AND cowboy in fantasy westerns of my own making.   Like many children, I preferred, during the summer months on our farm, to run barefoot in my playtime.  My tender, springtime feet eventually morphed into ‘tough as leather’ feet as summer and fall came along.  What I didn’t know then, was that, even though the the skin of my feet was now tough, my young bones inside were still ‘green’ and very bendable.  I would play cowboy (and horse) each day, for hours, as I’d be up on my tiptoes and chinking my young toes into the dirt to replicate a horse’s hooves making dust in all those cowboy adventure shows I had just seen on television.  Over time, my young ‘green’ toe bones bent to one side and, as a result, I have bent toes to this very day.  Such was the price to pay to play cowboy for this rootin’ tootin’ rip roarin’ Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 12th…“WHAT WERE SOME OF THE FUN WINTER GAMES AND ACTIVITIES YOU ENJOYED ON YOUR FARM THERE IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA?”

As a youngster on our farm, I owned my own jewelry store because, thanks to the brilliant sunrise, ‘diamonds’ sparkled in the snow all around us as sub-zero Minnesota temperatures turned our farm world into a crystalline play palace of winter pleasures.  With our precious mother, Clarice, ensuring our many layers of warming clothing were in place, we’d then joyfully explode out into the wonderment of our farm outdoors and a myriad of kid delights.  All it took was our imagination station to be turned up to full throttle and giggles in profusion erupted from our cheery, cherry, cherub cheeks.

“Jack Frost” had sent out his ‘wind brooms’ along with the snow fall that previous evening.   The ‘wind brooms’ swept the snow so smoothly that there was a perfect table of new, level snow between our farm house and the large chicken coop (house) that sat up against the windbreak tree-lined woods.  The black blizzard clouds had been shooed away and replaced by brilliant blue skies that reigned supremely over us which equaled perfect playtime weather!   By shuffling our winter boots in the snow, like a choo-choo train, we created a giant round circle.  Again in the snow with our boots, we then shuffled as we split that circle in half, then we made joyful pie-size intersections after that.  One person was chosen as the ‘fox’ to chase and try to catch the ‘geese’, but, during all the wild chasing melee, all players had to stay within those lines previously created.  From there, various families played the game in their own way……..but it sure was FUN!!!

Even a busy farmer father, like ours, liked to mingle work with pleasure.  In roughly 1953, Dad had an idea that my, then 10 year old, brother was all in favor of.   The work, in this instance, was that our Dad had to take out a load of cow manure to spread on the fields with our manure spreader machine pulled behind our tractor.  The FUN, was to tie a looooong rope to the back of the manure spreader for my brother, Lowell, to get a wild ride on his sled in the snow.   Now, before my readers jump to a wrong conclusion……….the manure spreader gears were NOT engaged to fling the stinky cow doodoo back towards our brother 😉   Brother DID say, though, that the bovine bowel blasts, wafting from that manure spreader, WERE quite fragrant as he hung on super tight while Dad’s tractor yanked him and his sled over rough terrain out in the field.  It was at the END of the field when our daddy stopped the tractor, rolled up the rope, put Lowell on board the tractor, stashed the sled somewhere and THEN turned on the rotors of the manure spreader as they ‘worked’ their way back towards the farmyard emptying out that ooooey, goooey cow stuffins peeeyoooey.

When winter weather conditions were just right, we’d either borrow Mom’s metal dustpans or Dad’s square point, aluminum grain shovels, or both.  Our goal?  Build a snow fort…..or two.  We’d cut a snow block, haul it to the fort, tamp it down in place and trim it off square…..then it was repeat and repeat until our white castle walls were big enough to hide behind when snowballs started to fly like white bullets.  I remember trying to build an igloo once, but had no idea how the Eskimos made the roof of their igloo; our attempts just resulted in the blocks of snow falling down on us.  So, we’d just get creative and use some old boards on top, covered in more snow.

Even though we were often anything BUT angels, it was still a chilly, childish challenge to drop backwards into a soft-landing of a snowbank and begin to flap our arms and legs as we made a butt-wrinkled, ‘angel’ self-portrait in the snow beneath us.  Before we knew it, you could almost hear fluttering of wings as ‘angels’ appeared all over our fluffy white farm yard.  Being youngsters with plenty of energy to burn, back then, flailing our arms and legs, in that happy snow time, was easy to do as we brought those little ‘heavenly harp heralds’ to life with our joy.

The handsome sound of a John Deere tractor came towards our farm from the north one frosty, frozen morning. That John Deere brought a handsome young man into our snow-bound yard.  It was our kind-hearted neighbor, Louie Heitzeg, who came rolling onto our farm property with his green n yellow John Deere 730 tractor.   The classic ‘PUTT PUTT PUTT’ of that great John Deere engine was going to provide the power to raise and lower the front loader bucket that was attached to Louie’s tractor.  With scoop after scoop of heavy snow, our dear farmer neighbor cleared out our yard of excessive snow and created ‘mountains’ of white marvel for us kids to enjoy!  As soon as those heavily chained tractor tires scrunched their way out of our yard and Louie headed back to his farm just north of us, we kids ‘attacked’ our new mountain in raucous squeals of delight.

Now the real thrill of us midget mountaineers began as we’d climb and explore our very own white version of ‘Mount Noorlun’ of joy!!  “King of the Hill” games, sledding down the slope, sitting on Dad’s grain shovel and flying down the ‘mountain’……these were just a few of the ecstatic fun times we enjoyed.  AND, when the snow in our ‘mountain’ had settled, after a week or two, we then could use shovels to dig out and enjoy our very own snow cave.  Pure delight was ours!!

There was also an automotive type of wintertime play, too.  Why pay Disneyland, or other amusement parks a fee to experience a wild ride when all you had to do was climb aboard our family car or pickup truck in the wintertime.  Frozen ruts in the farmyard and on the gravel roadways made for a bucking bronco, amusement ride experience for all passengers being jostled around inside our vehicles.   Before I was born, our mother, Clarice, told of a hilarious time of ‘just desserts’ for our proud father, Russell.  This incident occurred in March of 1951, with plenty of snow still in command of our farm yard.  Dad was going to drive into town, along with our sister, Rosie (who was 5 years old, at the time).  Mom had cautioned her husband, “Russ, you’d better chain up the Chevy if you’re gonna navigate the roads to town and back through all those snow drifts!”   To which our dad retorted, “Nahhhh, not necessary!  I can do it without chaining the tires!!”   Next thing Mom hears are the whirring, rubber sounds of car tires that were STUCK in the snow.  Dad was not only stuck, but had ‘high-centered’ the bottom frame of the car onto the heavy snow that was under the vehicle.  Our dear mother still spoke of how she laughed Dad to scorn, in her ‘GOTCHA moment’, for his misjudgment and not heeding her advice.  Mom ran outside with her old Kodak camera to capture the moment of Daddy’s  ‘poetical justice’! 😉

Even during a blizzard, there were fun times to enjoy for this boy.  Peaceful, fun times, I’ll say, for even though those howling winds circling around me were loud in decibels, inside of me was a peaceful solitude of enjoying the raw power of the winter that encompassed about me on all sides.  Bundled to the utmost, in winter clothing, I’d oftentimes would go for a solo walk during a winter’s gale along the barbed-wire fence-line that paralleled the north/south gravel road of our farm property.  With each boot-step crunching knee-deep into the snow’s crusty top layers, I could hear a ‘song’ to my left, as high velocity winds actually made the barb-wire fence ‘sing’ to me in sounds that rose and dropped in tones, depending on the the wind speed.   This loud, yet quiet, repose within me was only shortened by necessity as I began to lose the feelings in my feet from those sub-zero temperatures and figured I’d better get my near-frozen appendages back to our farm house to thaw them on our free-standing furnace in the family Living Room.

Trudging back towards the amber glow of our farm house lights, I pulled open the back-porch door and stepped inside to pull off the many layers of jackets, sweaters, gloves, mittens, etc..  Next came the brooming of the snow off of my snow boots.  I removed the last of my outdoor layers and then opened the door to our quaint family kitchen.   An aroma of utter ambrosia delighted my senses as my lungs drew in the warm, delectable delight of another of Mom’s delicious batch of homemade bread just coming out of our oven.  With rich, creamery butter slathered over those warm slices of ‘love’, I couldn’t imagine a more delightful way to end a day of winter joy for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!!!

November 11th…“WHO IS YOUR VETERAN’S DAY HERO?”

Incognizant, as newborns are, I was unable to appreciate the warmth and security of being held in the strong arms of my 10 year old brother, Lowell Ross Noorlun.   While his tender, quiet eyes looked down into my infantile face, it is very likely he was beaming over God’s gift of a new, one and only, little brother.  Even as the January blizzard, that I was born into, threatened outside our Living Room windows, it just couldn’t dampen the coziness and joy that my immediate and extended family enjoyed with this second little Norwegian Noorlun boy arriving on the scene.  From January 14th, of 1954, till the 26th of February, big brother and I were a mere 10 years apart.  But then, he matured into a mighty 11 year old boy and the stage was set for growing in love with my very own Veteran’s Day Hero…….11 years my senior.

Between our father, Russell, giving us hayrides, to dear brother Lowell blowing bubbles to make me laugh; I just knew that my elder sibling (and precious elder sister) would always look after my best interests as I explored what this new adventure called life had in store.

Being the first-born of our family, big brother Lowell did his very best to meet the standards that our parents placed upon him in godly traits, work ethics and practical knowledge of how to help our parents take care of our family farm.

Along those lines of expectations, big brother became so adept at working our little Farmall B tractor, that, one time, when it appeared he was stuck in the mud of our cow-yard, I saw him maneuver that tractor (and a full load in the manure spreader) OUT of that bog by using the left brake and then the right brake to actually ‘walk’ that little red Farmall right out of the mud and onto dry ground.  I stood there in awe of his prowess.

Not only did I literally look up to my big brother, but I also looked up to the fine example he was as a role model for me to emulate in my young life.  Even when it came to holidays, back in the sweet days gone by, big brother shined forth as my exemplary role model.

Our Uncle Del Sletten’s home, in Albert Lea, Minnesota, was like a castle (to me, at least) and oftentimes our entire clan was gathered there for Christmas parties.  Aunt Ilena would play piano and there would be big brother, big sister and our cute cousins, the Smith girls singing while Uncle Del blinded us all with his super bright movie camera lights.   Rosemary held a beautiful candle in a brass candle holder while Lowell, and his foursome, sang the classic Christmas carols for the Yuletide joy of parents and grandparents alike.

As I gained life experience, year upon year, while a growing boy, so also did brother Lowell grow more and more handsome as he entered his High School years.  I counted it a pure joy to be in his shadow wherever he went, that is,  if he allowed me to go with him.

When Lowell worked for Field’s Super Market, there in Kiester, he had to drive a large box truck to a far city to get a load of fruit, vegetables and canned goods for the store.   He woke me up, at the crack of dawn, so that I could have the pleasure of riding along with him.   AND, at the end of that day together, he gave me my very own caramel apple to enjoy.  I was in kid heaven!!!   On another adventure, my ‘young father’ invited me to a Minnesota Twins baseball game that was being played wayyyyy up in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area.   My obedient behavior that day garnered me my very own reward from brother of a baseball glove AND an official “Minnesota Twins” batting helmet.  Needless to say, I adored the ground my Veteran’s Day hero walked on.

The only thing consistent in life is change.   That change happened not long after our beloved brother graduated from Kiester High School in 1961.  Lowell enlisted in the United States Air Force and, the next thing you know, our farm home, farm yard and farm life seemed oh so empty with him no longer among us.  My daily hero, who had been an integral part of my daily life since 1954, was now gone from my life and off to Basic Training in Texas.  What a void I felt……at least for a while.  But then, I heard all the excitement brewing when news came that my hero was coming home for a visit after completing his Boot Camp/Basic Training.   MY, MY how handsome he was in that dashing blue Air Force uniform!!   And those service shoes he wore, well, they sparkled like diamonds, they did!!  His time at home was joyous!!!  Soon, though, it was time for his obedience to orders as he boarded bus, train and plane as he made his way north to his new destination which was to be Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks Alaska.

As our patriotic brother settled into life there at his base home in Alaska, Lowell began to send my little sister, Candice, and I gifts from time to time.  The gift that I still have from all those years ago is my very own “dog tag” that said I was a “The Big Man”.   The metal tag even had our farm home phone number stamped on it…..Axtel 4-3415.  I proudly wore that “dog tag” for the longest time!   Brother Lowell was never much of one to write letters, so, what he did was……..he bought and sent our family a small, reel to reel tape recorder.

Lowell had his own tape-recorder there on base in Alaska.   He’d record a “letter”, so to speak, and then send the tape home to us in Minnesota.   We’d enjoy his voice and then record our own message to send it back to him in Alaska.

Overall, our big brother very much enjoyed his time serving our nation in the Air Force.  On more than one occasion, I recall him saying, “I had the best!  Uncle Sam puts food in my tummy, gives me a place to sleep, clothes to wear, money in my pocket and I even get to travel, too!!  Just can’t beat a deal like that!!!” 

Over the many years, this Veteran’s Day hero of mine has truly been like a young father.   He’s encouraged me, played with me, protected me, confided in me, and sometimes he even chastised me, too.  Yet, I wouldn’t trade my Veteran’s Day hero, Lowell Ross Noorlun, for anyone else in the world.  That brother of mine will always have the deepest love and respect of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.