November 10th…“DID ANY OF YOUR MOTHER’S SIBLINGS SERVE IN THE ARMY DURING WORLD WAR II?”

Manly shades of khaki, blue and olive-green military uniforms created a moving mosaic on the loading platform of the train station near Fort Snelling, Minnesota.  Farm boys by the thousands were either coming or going on the constant stream of troop-carrying trains that belched out their engine steam from the hot metal sides of those powerful locomotives.  For those soldiers and sailors saying goodbye, there were long, passionate kisses to wives and girlfriends whose tears mingled with those of their beloved as their man was about to embark for parts of the world he’d never seen before in military service to his country.

Out of thousands who were called by their nation to serve in this dire time of need, two of those young men were Norwegian farm boys from the tiny berg of Scarville, Iowa.   To be exact, one of those soldiers was my Uncle Robert Shirley Sletten and the other was my Uncle Marcus Delmaine (better known as, “Del”) Sletten.

It is without a doubt that Uncle Bob and Del, along with the rest of our concerned nation, were glued to the frenetic sounds of the radio in their farm home, just north of Scarville, Iowa on that fateful Sunday of December 7th, 1941.   The sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by the Empire of Japan, was about to propel both of our uncles from being a child of the black, Iowa farmlands, to being a part of the 16 million men and women who valiantly served when “Uncle Sam” called.

The way that our President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, called them was via what was known as the “Draft” (Selective Training and Service Act of 1940).  It must’ve been unfathomable for Del and Bob to realize that, eventually, they’d both be leaving the peacefulness of farm life, then be compelled to climb on to and leave on a journey of train, steamship and truck that would propel them across the globe to the lands of Italy, for Del, and to France, for Bob.

Iowa farm boy that he was, Uncle Bob Sletten also had the added burden of saying goodbye to his farm wife, Doris.   She and he had been blessed with their little son, Lyle, during those early war years.  I can only imagine what would have traveled through their hearts and minds as Bob, in his Army uniform, gave his family a last kiss before leaving.  Would this be the last time he would see them in this life?  Would he be killed in a tank battle among the blasted out farmhouses of France?  Or, would he be spared, by God’s amazing umbrella of protection and mercy, to not be one of those 420,000 names of our men and women killed in action during that global conflagration?

Our handsome Uncle Del Sletten not only stood tall in height, but also stood tall in his aspirations of life, both in his Scarville High School days, but also in his hopes of one day being an architect.  Being the tallest of the two Sletten boys, Del was a natural who played on the school basketball team and was even Secretary Treasurer of his Senior Class back the Spring of 1942.  In his love for our American ideals, and in obedience to her needs, Del responded to his draft notice, when called to serve, and enlisted into the Army at Fort Dodge, Iowa on April 20th, 1944.  Trains had rolled through his boyhood village of Scarville many times, over his young years, but now, Del was to be a military passenger as he climbed aboard the troop transport train.  The long line of train coaches were yanked by a powerful steam locomotive engine as each troop car felt the jerk and clanking sounds while iron wheels rolled and they headed for Camp Roberts along the central California coast-lands.

Theoretically putting myself in Del’s shoes, I would be listening to the clackety, clack, clack of the railroad tracks below me as I gazed outside the miles and miles of scenery that lay between Fort Dodge, Iowa and my Boot Camp destination in California.  Only the good Lord above knew Del’s thoughts as farmlands morphed to prairies to the Rocky Mountains and down to the desert-like flats of the 44,000 acres of Camp Roberts.  There must’ve been a collage of emotions from trepidation, wonderment and even a bit of boyhood adventure mixed in as Del rolled onto the parade grounds of Camp Roberts.  Boot Camp now behind him, Del was assigned to the “Blue Devils” of the United States Army’s 88th Infantry Division.  This Division, created “from scratch” in 1940, was mainly comprised of young men from North Dakota, Minnesota and Iowa.

Under the command of Major General Paul W. Kendall, our beloved Uncle Del Sletten fought valiantly alongside his fellow Americans in the mountains of Italy.  Their warrior zeal even earned them the Presidential Unit Citation for valor in combat.

Our mother’s other brother, Bob Sletten, after completing Boot Camp, was assigned to be part of a tank crew that fought in France.  Like so many of the young men who served in those metal marvels, Uncle Bob’s hearing was never quite the same after suffering the high decibels of  noise from the innumerable artillery shells his crew fired from their tank cannon against enemy emplacements.  But, thankfully, enough of his hearing was intact because he needed that hearing to learn something new.   Yes, I can still hear Uncle Bob playing a little accordion that he had found inside a bombed-out and abandoned French farm house during a lull in the fighting.  He had grabbed it as a souvenir and brought it home to America where he taught himself to play it for family picnics and the like.

God, in His loving mercy, brought both of our uncles safely home again after World War II had ended.  What a celebration there must’ve been for all the family as these dear maternal uncles could now continue their lives in this free nation that they had helped to secure for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 9th…“WHAT WAS THE VERY FIRST CAR YOU EVER OWNED? SHARE A FUN MEMORY, OR TWO, ABOUT IT.”

“Are you kids ready back there?” “Yup, we’re hangin’ on tight, Unk, give ‘er the gas n let’s go slidin’!!”

Snow didn’t come often to the Pacific Northwest, and specifically, to our town of Battle Ground, Washington located in the southwest corner of the State. But, on this occasion, the good Lord plopped a thick, white blanket of fun over our area and it was time for some amusement with “Unk” (which was an endearing name for me as their uncle). My cohorts in craziness, that chilly day, were three of the four children belonging to our eldest sister, Rosemary.

“Stooba”(Debbie) was the eldest, then came “Dougie” and then little “Beezer”(Denise). The girls had gotten their nicknames from their Grandpa Russell Noorlun. “Stooba” means short or stubby, in Norwegian, so that’s how Debbie got tagged with her nickname. I think he gave the nickname, “Beezer”, to Denise because of her cute little nose glowing like a “Beezer”. Being this was the first car I had ever owned, I discovered that the back seat of my little, yellow 1971 Datsun Coupe could fold down flat for cargo. And that’s just what I used it for when I offered my two nieces and eldest nephew to be my ‘cargo’ and come along for some snow fun.

I surmise that whoever was the previous owner of my little ‘four-banger’ Datsun must have had a grand sense of humor to have the gall to install racing slick tires on the back of that tiny, timid teapot on wheels. But, hey, in our case, on that day, those pseudo racing slicks made for even more fun in the snow. The schools in our area were closed, due to the snowstorm that had just passed, and I knew that the giant, Battle Ground High School parking lot would be empty of cars and possess a thick, untouched layer of snow for ‘spinning donuts’. That massive expanse of smooth pavement just beckoned us to ‘come play!!! 😉

For all you super safety sleuths out there, I’ll have you just close your eyes and turn away from this story for awhile. Because, when we ‘fun-a-holics’ got down to that wide open expanse of parking lot, I put the ‘pedal to the metal’ as Unk spun ‘donuts’ in all that pristine parking lot snow while I heard tons of giggles from the back cargo area. Glancing back, occasionally, and checking the rear-view mirror, I could see three smiling little ones as they’d happily roll from one side of that Datsun to the other!! It was a blast of fun for three little cuties and this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 8th…“WHAT WAS AN ACT OF LOVE, FROM LOCAL FARMERS TO YOUR FAMILY, THAT TOUCHED YOUR YOUNG HEART?”

POEM – “Plowman Poets”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Six ‘Plowman Poets’,  A sonnet wrote,

With every furrow of soil,

As tractors pulled plows, Across the land,

That our father would usually toil.

An injury had happened, In our father’s life,

Now unable to rise to work’s task.

When word got around, Of our patriarch’s plight,

T’was nary the need to ask.

Each ‘Plowman Poet’, Had chores of his own,

Fighting chill in his warm coveralls.

His own farm was waiting, For attention from him,

Hungry livestock did roam in their stalls.

What was it that drew, These men from their farms,

To invest in the life of another?

Not only were they, Fellow farmers in trade,

But also a good Christian brother!

The sparkling moldboard, Of each plow share,

Sliced deep into that sod,

As the ‘Plowman Poets’, Transformed that field,

Into a gift from God.

Some cynics may say, These men wasted their gas,

And lost precious hours of time,

“It’s the other guy’s problem, Let him work it out”,

Yet we know, That would be a true crime.

Lord, please bless the memories, And families who,

Shared their ‘Plowman Poets’ that day,

It was more than a field, It was love they did yield,

In a farm neighbor’s friendliest way!!! ><>

 

 

November 7th…“IF THERE IS SUCH A THING, SHARE WITH US A WARM AND COZY MEMORY DURING THE WINTER ON YOUR FARM THERE IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA.”

It was a black, winter’s evening.   A steel-cold, ‘Polar Express’ wind screamed up over the top of Charlie Heitzeg’s hill, to our east, and came barreling down with its frozen intent of slamming into our farmstead.  I was standing inside of our barn, near the ‘Dutch’ (top & bottom) entry door when that gust assaulted the bulwark of our farming ‘Noah’s Ark’ that kept our livestock (and us) safe and relatively comfortable from the killing chill just outside.

True to form, winter’s icy fingers had clutched upon our Norwegian family’s farmstead once again.  Each year, this grip of white starkness slowed down every phase of life, both for our animals, and we as their caretakers.  As I shared in earlier stories, while a young boy, I often found refuge from the frigid fangs of the assailing winter’s cold by first bracing myself against the leeward side of our granary building.  Then, I’d draw a deep breath and hold it to prevent the screeching snow winds from sucking the air right out of my lungs, causing me to gasp it back in.   Leaning into that power-punch of winter’s blast, I’d then push forward, with trudging steps, to make my way to the Dutch-door (split door that could open at top/bottom or both) and yank it open to jump inside the ‘jungle’ atmosphere of our barn.  ‘Jungle’ is how I describe it, because with 15 fully grown Holstein cows and up to 24 or more younger animals; their combined body heat and moisture content made our barn a cozy place to get away from the wicked cold outside.

When my evening chores in the barn were completed to Dad’s satisfaction,  I remember pulling on and zipping up my thick, winter’s jacket to the highest hilt.  This would cause the fur collar to regally pop up and become a shield as it wrapped its fur around my neck.  Lastly, I would pull on my thick mittens and set out from the warmth of our dairy barn; plotting a course for the hog house on the east side of our farmyard property.

As my rubber, buckled boots crunched their way along the snowbanks and icy path, I could see a faint glow of the heat lamps through the windows of our hog house as I approached.  Once inside, I could hear playful grunts and pig giggles of numerous litters (group or family of baby pigs).  They were not only enjoying a meal from their mother sow, but also the warmth of the big heat lamps that Dad had set up for their comfort and survival against another brutal Minnesota winter.

Like any mother, a sow will valiantly protect her young piglets if anyone would try to get near them. But, in our case, my dad was now using a fairly new invention called a “farrowing crate”.  This V-shaped, metal, tubular device restricted the sow’s movements so that she wouldn’t inadvertently flop down and crush her little ones.  Soooo, being that momma sow was now ‘under control’ inside the farrowing crate, I could quietly climb over the wooden railings of the pig pen and sit down in the straw where the piglets played.

As the blizzard winds howled outside these walls, you could happily find me cozily sitting beneath those hog house heat lamps.  My playful, puny, porker pals slowly became accustomed to this giant playmate that had just arrived and, eventually, came to count me as one of their own.  In a gleeful, rambunctious joy, they included me in their romping, stomping and playful chases.  All the while, I just sat there, in one soft straw spot, so as not to scare them by any quick movements on my part.  Those tiny four-legged friskies, with pointy hooves, played “leap frog” over my legs as we all basked in the glow of our happy hog heaven under Daddy’s heat lamps in the hog house of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 6th…“WHAT WAS A FARM CHORE LESSON YOU HAD TO LEARN THE HARD WAY ON THE FARM?”

POEM – “The Peeyoo Flew!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Since toddler perched, On Farmall seat,

A tractor’s lure, Just couldn’t be beat.

From days when playing, With tractor toys,

I grew to a time, When bigger boys,

Were expected by parents, To do farm work,

And from their chores, They did not shirk,

Until one frozen, winter’s night,

I faced a stinky, Type of plight.

For Dad had told me, To be sure,

To take the “H”, And spread manure.

He said to check, The wind’s direction,

And then to make, The right election,

To take the “poo”, To the end of the field,

“Drive INTO the wind”, But did I yield?

“Heck no!”, I figured, Why waste time,

So with spreader in gear, I think that I’m,

The smart one here, So off I flew,

It wasn’t long, Before I FELT “peeeyooo”!!

In the headlights of, The fast Farmall,

I saw some things, That started to fall,

And soon mysterious, Chunks went WHACK!,

As lumps of cow turds, Hit my back!,

Then I realized, Dad’s wisdom plain,

I deserved what I got, With my untrained brain!!! 😉

November 5th…“WHAT HIGH SCHOOL EVENT, THAT YOUR BIG SISTER WAS INVOLVED IN, MADE THE BIGGEST IMPRESSION ON YOU AS A YOUNG BOY IN YOUR MINNESOTA DAYS?”

Effervescence bubbled in happy abandon behind the sparkling smile of our sister, Rosemary Arlone Noorlun. On her way down from Heaven, in May of 1946, she must’ve bounced off the North Pole and collected some of its magnetism, for she had the gift of drawing others to her and was a catalyst for fun in so many ways.

Even later in life, it was our Rosie who would bring family gatherings alive by the entourage of treasures she’d bring along to any family get-together. There’d be recipes for the ladies to try together in the kitchen, crafts for everyone to enjoy, board games, etc..  Of course, there were always the happy times around the Dining Room table with our family shoe-box full of photos which was brought out from the hall closet.  This entertainment was long before the digital age took over, so, our Norwegian queen of the scene would hand out packets of photos, wrapped in a rubber-bands, to everyone around the table. We’d pop off the rubber-bands and all of us would joyfully start jabbering about a certain memory a photo would spark or some other fun time of the past as we’d gaily shuffle those old photos from the top of the deck to the bottom and then pass that bundle of black n white memories to the next person at the dinner table. It was easy to see that that magnetic spirit, that she had captured from the North Pole at birth, followed her throughout her 43 years of life she enjoyed on this earth.

Our elder sibling of the gentle gender was 8 years older than myself when her High School Senior year of 1964 rolled around. So, as far as this little farmer boy brother was concerned, next to Mom and Dad, Rosemary was top notch, all grown up (in my eyes) and the queen of cool!  Still consuming her, like a sparkling of pixie dust, was that magnetism that ignited a yearning to be involved in a plethora of High School activities. Why was that so? In my heart, I feel that it was likely because of her natural love for people and wanting to be part and parcel to all that school life had to offer.  As a sampling list, sister Rosemary enjoyed being a part of the  Kiester High School Band, Chorus, Library Club, Girl’s Athletic Association (G.A.A.), Member of Student Council, Cheerleader, Future Farmer’s Of America Chapter Sweetheart and Homecoming Queen…….just to name a few of her extra-curricular activities.

A marvelous, musically magical mentor to our sister, Rosemary, was the honorable Mr. Glende.  He had his own form of magnetism that drew our sister and untold hundreds of other students to his classes of band and choir there at Kiester High School in Kiester, Minnesota.

This master educator was the much revered and respected Mr. Milton Leland Glende who hailed from Otter Tail County, Minnesota when he entered this world in 1926.

Mr. Glende exuded not only his zeal and passion for perfection in music, but he also interjected his high standards for professionalism and discipline into each young student that crossed the hallowed portals of the ‘Bulldogs’ Music Department’s hallway doors.   Like any great educator, Mr. Glende earned his student’s respect through the discipline that followed him via his own personal upbringing.  Part of Mr. Glende’s wisdom and tenacity was that which was garnered from his time in the military serving our country during World War II.  If you marched for Mr. Glende, every row of his marching band, both forward and across’ was as straight as an arrow.  The marching band’s classic ‘Hussar Military Parade Jackets’ would have every button polished, with slacks pressed and white parade shoes looking their whitest.  Simply the best, they were!

I would’ve loved to have been the proverbial ‘mouse in the corner’ of Mr. Glende’s office so I would’ve been able to hear of the reasoning for this honored music educator to have picked my sister’s 1964 Senior year of high school to decide to make an actual professional recording of one of their Band & Choir concerts.

Plans were in the works to create a 33 1/2 rpm (Revolutions Per Minute) vinyl record of the event.  Big sister, Rosie, and her Music Department comrades must’ve been buzzing with excitement as they entered Mr. Glende’s music room each day.  I can imagine the fragrance of brass polish and brass instrument valve lubricant on the air as they pulled their instruments from their cases and found their seats in the semi-circle practice area.  Rosie played drums in the band and sang in the choir, as well.   There must’ve been an extra edge of excitement as this young assembly of musicians knew that every note needed to as close to perfection as possible to bring honor to the ‘blue and white’ traditions of our dear alma mater and to make their cherished music master educator to be proud of their performances.

History is a bit foggy for me on this point, but I’d venture to hypothesize that this very special recording session would be made even more special by the event occurring in the evening hours.  This way, local farmers (like our father) could finish the milking of dairy herds, and other chores, before getting himself and his family into their ‘Sunday Best’ to drive into town for this gala event.  You can just imagine our good town and country folk parking their family cars in front of the High School as the setting sun yielded its brightness to another evening.   As they made their way through the school’s entry foyer and to our gymnasium, family after family filed past our school’s trophy case so they could see numerous awards that, with Mr. Glende’s leadership, had been won over the years by our young musicians.  Upon this excellent evening, our current young musicians were to continue that same honored tradition in their grand performances.   Recording technicians were at the ready to capture this musical evening as Mr. Glende, with his dear wife, Gertrude, at the piano, commanded rapt attention from his band and choir.   As he gave the down-stroke, the most wonderful music filled that gymnasium to the very rafters for all to enjoy.

The eight years, that separated big sister and myself, would not be considered a full generational spectrum.  Yet, I sensed then, and still do today, that those young people involved on that evening, in 1964, were far more mature than their chronological teenage years.  I surmise that it was because they were the direct offspring of the “Greatest Generation” that had sacrificed and won World War II.   They were held to a higher degree of discipline as they grew up in the shadow of godly parents who helped form these young adults a into team of not only playing music that went onto a record album, but would go forth into their worlds of tomorrow to make a positive imprint with their own lives and the lives of the children they would bear.

When Rosemary brought home the actual record album of that concert night, I was allowed to hold it and gently slide the vinyl record out from its protective paper sheathing.  “Wow!!!!”, I exclaimed, it was CLEAR, SEE-THROUGH BLUE!!!  I was entranced!   Up to that point, I had only seen records made out of black vinyl.  What a grand way of celebrating the music that was not only IN the record itself, but the very vinyl of the record was also celebrating the ‘Blue & White’ of our Kiester High School ‘Bulldogs’.

At the tender age of only 43 years, Rosemary suffered a heart attack and the good Lord called our beloved sister Home to Heaven’s Shores.  Sad as that time was, I celebrate her precious life while among us here on earth.  It is as if her very life was a symphony as she orchestrated four beautiful children into this world that carry on the music of her life to this very day.  And, what is more than gold to me, is when I listen to this 1964 recording of Rosemary and her classmates over and over.   Each rat a tat tat of a snare drum, each drum a drum drum of a kettle drum translates to me that I’m hearing our Rosie who was one of those musicians.   When I hear that ‘Bulldog’ choir sing “All Ye Who Music Love”, I hear the high, feminine voices and I ponder…….”One of those sweet voices is my Rosie!”……….the sweet sister of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 4th…“TELL ABOUT THE BUSY HARVEST TIMES ON YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA?”

Ubiquitous to every farmer who’s ever planted a seed, is the hope and grand finale of desiring a good harvest.  All of the invested sweat, hours, sore muscles, etc. would, he prayed, culminate in a bounteous yield at the end of each growing year from those black, enriched soils of southern Minnesota.   Our Norwegian farmer’s magnum opus (great work) would, in all hopes, to bring in food for our Noorlun farm animals and even have enough crop left over to sell at the local grain market.  That accomplishment would provide a monetary income to help Dad take care of our mother, Clarice, and his beloved family over the coming winter.

The morning milking of our Holstein dairy herd was completed at about sunrise on that fine fall day.

Mom had a big breakfast waiting for Dad when he came up to the house from the barn.  Breakfast was Dad’s favorite meal of the whole day, he could easily gulp down a couple bowls of cereal, multiple slices of black toast, lots of coffee and at least three eggs with bacon and then maybe a ‘chaser’ of half a grapefruit.  With his handsome farmer frame now full of Mom’s delicious ‘fuel’, Dad gave her a kiss of ‘Thanks for the meal, dear’ and headed outside.

The creaking screen door of our back porch signaled Dad’s exit into what was to be another busy harvest day.  Of course, as his son, I loved to shadow Dad, so, due to the brisk weather, the earflaps of my cap came down over my ears and thick gloves came on as I strapped on my bib overalls and trotted alongside Dad out our back-porch door.

Arriving at our equipment, I could see our farmer father vigorously pumping away with his grease gun as he lubricated and then oiled our “Gleaner/Baldwin” brand grain combine.  “Sha-glick, sha-glick, sha-glick” was the sound that that grease gun made with each muscular compression of my dad’s sinewy arms; for with every repetition of that handle, Dad was making sure each “Zerk” fitting was being filled to capacity with lubricating grease so that our farming harvest machines could run for that day in the smoothest way.

Just like a cowboy of old would’ve dropped onto his horse’s saddle, so also did our father climb up and drop into the spring-loaded seat of our handsome International Farmall Super M tractor.  His farmer’s work-boot reached down and depressed the engine starter lever as that faithful, 264 cubic inch, four cylinder engine happily popped to life.  With a pull back of the throttle lever for a bit more speed, the vertical engine muffler spewed a carbon cough cloud to the sky.   Russell slowly let out the clutch as he and his red-metaled steed rolled forward towards the woods of our windbreak where we kept our grain combine machine.  Throttling down the engine speed, our hardworking dad put the tractor into the gear called reverse as he slowly backed up to and hooked up the “tongue” of the combine to our tractor.  Russ climbed down from the Farmall M, grabbed and then pulled up and inserted a heavy, metal-sheathed tube from the combine towards the back of the tractor that had a cylindrical sleeve gear that faced the tractor.  The long device, now hooked up to the Super M, was a means for receiving power from the tractor that would operate that grain combine.  The point of connection to the tractor was known as the PTO.  That acronym stood for a “Power Take Off”.    Once in the field of soybeans, Russ would activate that PTO and the spinning tractor gear would then spin the tube to the combine and that magnificent machine would harvest our soybeans.

With the harvesting of our soybeans completed, our father then climbed aboard the very old International Harvester F20 tractor that was intercoursed within our two row corn-picker machine that literally wrapped around that old tractor.  That F20 engine came to life with a growl, seeing that it hardly had any muffler left on the engine.  Previous greasing and lubrication took a while to smooth out the clanking, squeaking and kah-chunking sounds that the old beast made as it lurched towards the golden cornfields that awaited its voracious appetite for harvesting corn.

As wagon, upon wagon of golden field corn came rolling into our yard, it was off-loaded into a device called an elevator that slowly pulled the chain-linked sections of corn up, up and then into the top of a wire mesh corn crib.  As the fields yielded their acres of corn, that wire mesh corn crib became like a giant yellow, vertical tube there on our farm.  Full to the very tip top with uncountable ears of corn, the harvest would now be dried by the howling winds there in the seasons of fall and winter.  For, unlike our Minnesota summers (which were extremely humid), the fall and winter months in that part of the United States are super dry, though also super cold.

Thanks to our family friend, Harry Bauman, my big brother, Lowell Noorlun, and of course the long hours worked by both our father and mother; another year’s harvest was safely in storage just in time for “Old Man Winter” to move in and cool things down for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 3rd…“DID YOUR PARENTS EVER ALLOW SPORTSMEN TO HUNT ON YOUR FARM THERE NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA? WHAT ANIMAL OR BIRD WERE THEY SEEKING?”

The shrill chill of a fall wind sliced through the golden-crisp cornfields that encompassed our farm there in south central Minnesota. Our rich soils had once again blessed us with a bumper crop of amber maize (corn) and also a bumper crop of beautiful ring-necked pheasants that feasted upon the millions of corn kernels that awaited their happy pecking.

I sensed there was almost a personification of those fall winds. It was as if ‘Mr. Fall’ was using those brisk gusts like a broom, of sorts, sweeping our Midwest ‘house’ in preparation for “Old Man Winter” to arrive and move in shortly. Our endless soldier rows of corn had been tender and green, just a month or so earlier, but now, those same fields lay brittle and brown, ready for the harvest, as acre upon acre now noisily made a rasping melody all its own as the ‘Piper Of The Wind’ moved each stalk in its musical sway.

As reliable as the seasons changing, so also could we annually expect a cadre of pheasant hunting guests that would visit our farm each year. This group of good-natured fellows journeyed all the way down to us from the massive metropolis of Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota.

Working off of a hypothetical assumption, on my part, I’m guessing that these burly, bicep bulging, benevolent bruisers were likely business acquaintances of our Uncle Ray Noorlun who was a mechanic and lived out most of his days in the “Twin Cities” of Minneapolis & St. Paul, Minnesota. Either way, this garrulous group of guys were greatly appreciative of our parents, Russell and Clarice, for allowing them to hunt and camp on our farm property during this hunting season.

As a means of token ‘payment’ for their hunting privileges, these sportsmen usually brought us all some gifts as their way of saying thanks to our family. On this certain year, one of those gifts, given out of gratitude, brought my little sister Candi’s eyeballs to the point of bursting with happiness as she was handed her very own “Baby First Steps” doll.   She was thrilled, to say the least!!! 😉

Our visiting ‘city slickers’ began unloading their cornucopia of hunting gear from their various station wagons and pickup trucks. They appeared to have purchased every imaginable gadget for hunting from A to Z and they managed to get it all stuffed neatly into their vehicles. Out came hunting vests, shotgun shells by the boxes full, long-johns to keep them warm, classic brand “Jones Hunting Caps” and last, but not least, out came their giant shotguns in their wrapping shrouds and cases.

Even in the briskness of that fall day, our hunting guests became thirsty from all of their activity in unloading of gear.  Sensing the hunter’s liquid needs, our handsome farmer father, Russell, sought to slack that thirst and offered the coldest, sweetest water this side of anywhere. He invited our guests over to our little well-water pump-house at the center south side of our yard and handed them a porcelain cup that hung on a nail off of that little building. As each hunter guest filled and drank our pure water from that cup, they each raved about how delicious our ice-cold water was!!! “This water tastes GREAT!”, they’d each say, of the iron-enriched mouthfuls, and would fill up cup after cup. Having lived in the big city all their life, they had become accustomed to the nasty, chemically-treated water that was obviously tainted by those same chemicals intended to keep down the germs associated with such close-in, city dweller lifestyles.

Like any inquisitive kid, I was captured by the manly aura of these high-calibered friends who visited our farm so I gladly shadowed them as they made their way to the west side of our family orchard and began to set up their encampment of tents, fire pit, etc.. Inclusive, they were, as they allowed this little whippersnapper to take part in the exuberance of their zest for checking their various paraphernalia that was to be essential in having a successful hunt the next morning.

As a ten year old, in 1964, I was in awe of the massive array of shotgun ‘artillery’ that surrounded me that afternoon. Single barrel, over/under barrel and double barrel shotguns were being prepped and displayed to each side of me. These men brought an arsenal of firepower with them that captured my mini-man imagination. To top off my boy joy, these furry-faced, masculine visitors actually invited me to have supper with them and camp out, overnight, in their tents. I was beyond thrilled to be included into their fraternity of pheasant fellowship!!

As the Minnesota sun dropped into the western horizon, so did the temperatures that evening. The tent’s interior fabric walls were getting frosty as they were lit by the interior glow of a Coleman lantern. That same glow was casting an essence of pleasantness among us, within the tent, compared to the bleak blackness that surrounded our fabric abode in the star-studded ebony sky above us.

After a simple meal with our visiting guests, I was invited to experience my first time of sleeping in a fleecy, fabricated device called a “sleeping bag”. Once I slid myself horizontally into that cozy tube, I zipped up the full-length zipper of that contraption and I was as snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug for the rest of that frosty night. As the eastern sunshine trepidatiously brought it’s weak warmth to a new fall morning, I stepped outside our tent to realize that one of our hunter friends had braved the elements overnight in his sleeping bag OUTSIDE of our tent. That man’s beard was totally white with frost that had crept up on all things during the night, like a white leopard landing upon its prey.

By the time our hunter friends had scarfed down their breakfast in those tents, the marvelous Minnesota sunshine gained intensity and had chased away the frost with its warmth. A perfect fall day was upon us to enjoy. Pheasants could be heard in the cornfields nearby, as if daring us with a ‘come catch us if you can’ kind of chirruping call. Herein came the anomaly of my association with the hunting adventure that day.

Depending upon the type and model of shotgun our guests were using, a single shotgun shell could contain up to as many as 100 BB’s inside. When the trigger was pulled, the gunpowder exploded, sending those 100 BB’s into the air, in a fanning spread, in hopes of knocking a pheasant from out of that cornfield sky. Antithetically, my firepower, that day, consisted of a little “Daisy” BB rifle that fired one, single, itty-bitty BB out of the end of that little boy air-rifle barrel.

Incongruous as it was, and I’m sure comical to a number of the men that day, nevertheless, there I strode along with my fellow pheasant flushers as our team spread out along the entry rows of a cornfield and began our walk down the crispy, wind-tossed cornfield rows. As a ring-necked pheasant would launch into the air ahead of us, the multiple shotgun cannonry around me was deafening. It is without saying, that the faint “plink, plink” of my tiny BB gun air-rifle was unheard by the men as I also fired off shots at the same targeted pheasant in flight. But, being the puny, pusillanimous, positive thinker that I was, in those days, I was just sure that it had to have been my single BB that brought down that fancy, feisty pheasant that lived on the farm of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

November 2nd…“TELL US ABOUT THE FIRST DATE YOU HAD WITH OUR MOTHER.”

“Ohhh, Elliott, if I were 30 years younger, I’d be after you!!!”  The twinkle in ‘Grandma’ Nell’s eyes matched the demure way she cocked her head of perfectly coiffured silver hair as she shared her happy heart with me.  Though Nell Thacker held no bloodline connection to our clan, her genuinely kind soul and pleasant ways about her were a magnetic pull that eventually brought me to call her ‘Grandma’.  This dear lady, of quiet elegance, and I got along famously as we’d visit or enjoy a light lunch together there in her home on what was then called Hawthorne Street in Battle Ground, Washington.  It was roughly 1974 and with her grandsons, Greg and Jeff, in college or busy, I had been approached to work for her, and her lovely daughter, Mary Ann Peck, as a yardman.   Seeing that our Noorlun home was just across the street, all I had to do was saunter across the cul-de-sac each week to see that Nell’s lawn was mowed, flower beds were kept clean and perform other landscape related tasks like planting trees or flowers.   It was convenient for me to help Nell and Mary Ann out as a yardman, seeing that my regular job with the Battle Ground School District was as a Swing Shift Floor Scrubber.  That left my daylight hours available to make an extra dollar this way.  But, more importantly, I had the joy of kinship with this delightful woman who was the essence of gentility and kindness in her dealings with me.

Likely through a neighborhood Bible Study, Nell Thacker had become sweetly acquainted with Mrs. Thelma Cass and family who lived just three houses, or so, to the west of the Peck/Thacker home.   It was only natural, as two proud matriarchs, that Mrs. Cass and Mrs. Thacker likely had many a happy occasion of discussing the love for their respective families and what each were accomplishing in life at that time.  Mr. and Mrs. Cass had two daughters and two sons.  The eldest daughter was named Shirley and was a mere year and nine months younger than myself.

Having always had an affinity towards respecting and enjoying “The Greatest Generation”, I delightfully discovered not only a neighbor in ‘Grandma’ Thacker, but a kindred spirit on so many topics.  On more than a few occasions, I was Nell’s invited guest to have a bite of lunch with her while we discussed a myriad of issues and nostalgic trips down memory lane.  Nell knew that I was not dating or courting any young ladies at the time, so pretty soon, she garnered the courage to begin suggesting that I inquire regarding a ‘date’ with Miss Cass.

As the weeks passed into months, ‘Grandma’ Nell would put in a ‘plug’, like any good ‘Matchmaker’, that I should take that cute Shirley Cass out on a get acquainted excursion somewhere together.  In gentle retort, I would come up with excuses why Shirley wouldn’t be interested in little old me.  “Well, ‘Grandma’, Shirley will likely want to date and marry a PK (preacher’s kid) someday, seeing how every time the door is open at Battle Ground Baptist Church, she and her family jump in that big Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station-wagon and head down there.”

It was mid-May of 1975, while working in her yard one day, that ‘Matchmaker Nell’ snuck up on me, in a sense, while we were chatting at her doorway.  “You know, Elliott, if you don’t call that nice Shirley Cass up for a date soon……..I WILL!!!”  Of course, her words were laced with tenderness and powered by her loving and well-intentioned heart.  “O.K., O.K., ‘Grandma’….I’ll call her tonight while I’m on my lunch break at my Floor Scrubber’s job at Chief Umtuch Primary School.”

My station of trepidation that evening, was sitting behind the secretary’s desk at Chief Umtuch Primary School (since torn down and a Middle School now sits in its place) in Battle Ground, Washington.  With the school’s location at the very end of that town’s boulevard, I had a perfect view down the length of Hawthorne Street from the school secretary’s desk.  Thanks to the street lights dotting each side of that quaint length of neighborhood, I was sure I could see the Cass house in the distance.  With mustered courage, and the phone book flopped open to the “C” section, I found and dialed the Cass family’s phone number.

The reserved, yet friendly voice of Mrs. Cass picked up my call.  Shirley was summoned to the phone and greeted me kindly.  Even though I was a nimble 21 year old ‘buck’, at the time, you’d think I was a “bull in a china shop” the way I stumbled all over my tongue and words that evening.  From a distance, I had always been impressed with this lovely young lady who’s long, auburn hair was like a regal mane of beauty as it flowed almost to the small of her back.  It was only recently that I had seen that she’d had those long tresses cut and now sported a ‘bobbed’ short hair style.  Amazingly, Shirley accepted my invitation and our ‘date’ was set for June 1st, 1975.

Unbeknownst to me, during our chat that evening, on the phone, I learned that Shirley and her family had recently moved to a new home just north of our town.  Sunday, June 1st 1975 crested as a perfect day in every way.  I found the Cass family’s new country home and with customary greetings to her parents and family accomplished, Shirley and I pointed that 350 cubic inch Chevrolet Malibu chariot in the direction of the gorgeous Oregon Coastline.

With the Malibu’s throaty mufflers purring plenty of power, we made our way up the Interstate 5 freeway to Longview, Washington.  After crossing the sky-high Longview Bridge from Washington State into Oregon, the Columbia river teased us with its views as we paralleled it on our way to the Coast of Oregon and some fun.

Through our conversations that day, both Shirley and myself realized that we two had many similarities to the early American explorers, Lewis and Clark.  The Cass family, like Lewis and Clark, had traveled to a ‘new land’ from Montana, just months before my family had traveled to the same ‘new land’ and explored our way from Minnesota.  It was amazing how both of our families had found the same destination of the same town and even took up residence on the same street.

From the Fort Clatsop National Memorial Park, we made aim and drove to the fun coastal resort town of Seaside, Oregon.  My lady friend, Shirley, and I enjoyed everything from playing arcade games, eating till we about busted a gut, hunted through unending souvenir shops and drank in the sunshine that could sometimes be fleeting on the Oregon Coast.  Venturing out onto the warm sands of the Pacific Ocean’s shoreline, we could see, in the distance, Tillamook Rock Lighthouse that, since 1881, still stood solidly upon its basalt rock foundation fully a mile off of the coastline.

With the June sun beginning to acquiesce to the ending of a perfect day, that yellow orb was being pulled down into the misty waves of the distant Pacific Ocean’s horizon.  The time had come to slide ourselves onto the bench seat of that Malibu and make our way back inland to Battle Ground town and our respective homes.  We ended that first date with a handshake that night, but a spark had been lit by our ‘Matchmaker Supreme’ (Nell Thacker) and on July 10th of 1976, ‘Grandma’ Nell was a very special guest at the wedding of Shirley Jo Cass/Noorlun and this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

November 1st…“WHAT KIND OF BIRDS LIVED AROUND YOUR FARM WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY IN MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “Did You Ever See A Symphony Fly?”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Did you ever see, A “symphony” fly?

Upon a cloud-laced, Summer sky?

A feathered fanfare, Sent from God,

To soothe we folk, Who worked the sod.

A Meadowlark, As I walked the field,

To me his warbled, Song he’d yield.

Glissando trill, From high to low,

As about my daily, Path I’d go.

His yellow “vest”, With black “bow-tie”,

Led me to admire, This handsome guy.

Then came this sparkling, Ebony sir,

To show me when, His wings would stir,

His gold n crimson epaulets,

Upon his shouldered, Wings of jets.

Red-winged Blackbird, Was his name,

And bold his song, Colored full the same.

His tunes were sparklers, They appealed to me,

As he sang a tune, Sounding “Conga Lee!”.

Next musical member, Of symphony’s fling,

Had been with us, Since snows of spring.

American Robin, Saw our hopes rise,

When each spring he returned, From southern skies.

Even his music, Those sweet warbled notes,

Sounded to me, Like these words in quotes.

“Wake up, it’s spring, The snow melts away!”

“Wake up, it’s spring, Come out to play!!”.

If you were lucky, And able to find,

The robin’s nest, You had to be kind,

For secure in their casings, Tiny eggs of blue,

Were future members, Of the “Symphony”, too.

Often in, The morning’s hush,

Before the school bus, And busy rush,

A “Symphony” member, In our woods you’d find,

With song both sad, And plaintively-lined.

As if her lover, Had left her scorned,

And so, In her song, She sadly mourned.

The heart-rending song, That spoke of no love,

The song of our local, Mourning Dove.

Just then, From our cornfield, Excitement did vent,

As a kitty-cat scared up, A Ring-Necked Pheasant.

Brilliant colors displayed, In rainbows of hue,

As he landed to corn patch, And hidden from view.

Needless to say, No dime was spent,

God’s music was mine, Where’er I went.

No need of radio, Or stereo speaker,

Besides, man’s music, Is usually weaker.

For I’ve many times seen, A “symphony” fly,

Above our farm, In God’s musical sky!!!