October 31st…“DID YOU EVER QUESTION THE ORIGIN OF HALLOWEEN?”

POEM – “Halloween’s Quirk”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Back in the day, As a wee little squirt,

It didn’t seem to matter, It didn’t seem to hurt,

To scare the bahjeebers, Out of fat or lean,

Each day, Once a year, On the night, Halloween.

For the rest of the year, I was taught to be good,

To do all the things, That I knew I should.

But here, On this night, T’was o.k. to blast,

With screams n goblins, And ghosts from the past.

I never had really, Given much thought,

Of this holiday’s genesis, Till I sought,

To know more about, Why each gal and guy,

Would look for witches, On brooms in the sky.

I found that some churches, On November one,

Would celebrate saints, Who believed in God’s Son.

The night before, All Hallow’s Day,

Was All Hallow’s Eve, Set aside to pray.

All Hallow’s Eve, Became Halloween,

But a dark side came out, For all to be seen.

God’s children on earth, Were called a saint,

But what happened in darkness, Seemed to taint,

The first intent, Church Fathers had hoped,

But centuries later, Society’s still doped,

Into thinking if we, Dress up the kids,

In costumes so cute, Folks’ll flip their lids.

And hand out candy, Then wave goodbye,

It seems to gloss over, The reason why,

To make ghosts n goblins, Of each little squirt,

Just confuses life’s issues, Within Halloween’s quirk.

October 30th…“DID YOUR FATHER, RUSSELL, EVER TAKE PART IN ANY HALLOWEEN PRANKS WHEN HE WAS YOUNG?”

A glint of pixie dust sparkled from the corner of young Russell’s eye as he and his fellow scalawags reconnoitered their plans for some upcoming Halloween night shenanigans.

Our happy and young Russell Noorlun was a mischievous boy by nature and never hesitated to employ those playful powers in fun whenever he could.  He likely inherited those jokester genes from his Grandfather Ingebrit Tollefson who passed them on to Russell’s mother, Marie, and then on to our father, in 1918, when he was born.

Not only was frost on the pumpkins in northern Minnesota that fall, but it also gave an icy glaze to the toilet seats of many a farmer’s outhouses, too.  Back in those days, indoor plumbing was mainly a luxury of the rich folk.  The greatest majority of farm families ‘answered nature’s call’ by going out to do ‘potty’ a tiny building usually located in their wooded grove of trees that encircled those farms in what was known as a ‘windbreak’.  Now, whether the genesis of that night’s prank was handed down from our dad’s parent’s generation, or, the gang may have conjured up this idea on their own………either way, that night, Russell and his ‘Crap Cottage Commandos’ were about to engage their stealth in hunting, as a pack, for their victim neighbor farmer and the outhouse in his woods.  The time had come for the classic PUSH OVER THE OUTHOUSE AND RUN prank!!!

For those too young to remember or know what constituted an outhouse, it was basically a deep pit that was dug way down into the ground.  A small house was built over the pit with either one toilet seat inside, or two.  The  only indoor toilet facilities in those days were called “chamber pots” inside the common farm house.  As a result, many families used this outdoor structure to purge themselves of human waste that each of us produce.   Yes, it was very odoriferous and the antithesis of clean, but like old sailors used to say……”Any port in a storm is GOOD”, especially if that storm was brewing inside your lower bowels 😉

Distant timber wolves howled under a black onyx sky as the boys and our young Russell neared an unsuspecting farm yard.  The only illumination to be seen was a dimly lit window light as it shown from the farm house that they quietly approached for the ‘kill’.  Sure enough, the outhouse target was now in sight.  There it was…… that family’s outhouse nestled in the speckled shadows of the October moon above them.  With their young adolescent muscles………..the ‘bulldozing over’ of that outhouse should be a cinch.  Getting a foothold in the darkness on one side of that ‘crap castle’, the boys began to push against the side wall.  There was some movement of the ‘poop parlor’, but not quite enough as the ‘potty perch’ rocked back and forth from its foundation.  With another frenzied mass of muscles from Russ and the boys, the outhouse gave way and “TIMBERRRRR!!”, over it went with a crash.

All of a sudden, sheer pandemonium erupted as the farmer who owned that property came storming out of his house with a double barrel shotgun loaded with rock salt shells (those wouldn’t likely kill ya, but they’d hurt like the dickens if they connected with your behind)!!!!  KABOOOM!!!  That fiery farmer fired off a massive explosion of a shot into the air as fire belched from the muzzle into that frigid night sky.  Russell and his gang went wild and in all directions as they tripped over each other in their pell-mell attempts to escape or be caught by one VERY mad farmer.

In the absolute bedlam of that crazy moment, one of those poor hooligans became completely disoriented in the darkness and, rather than running away from the scene, he actually ran right INTO the ‘poop pit’ that used to be covered by that outhouse!!!  That lil culprit was stuck in human ‘goo’ clear up to his ‘whatevers’ and was screaming at the top of his lungs to be rescued.  Young Russell, and his buddies, however, thought the plight of their fellow ‘stinker’ fit him quite well as they laughed hysterically while they fled from that farmer’s wrath and back into the cloak of darkness.

Something tells me that the poor schmuck in that fecal fallow likely now had a new nickname……..”Brownie Boy”!!!  So surmises this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 29th…“DO YOU HAVE A GHOST OR HAUNTED HOUSE STORY TO SHARE?”

POEM – “My Friend With The Most”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

What is it, With this time of year?

When most folk actually, CHOOSE to fear?

Rather than turn, To the Friend with the most,

Our Triune Third, His Holy Ghost.

Another way, To say His name,

Is Holy Spirit, He’s just the same.

Given to, Each Christian with love,

From our caring Father, In Heaven above.

As Christ was baptized, In Jordan’s brook,

The Spirit descended, In sweet Dove’s look,

And each day hence, While on this sod,

Each believer in Christ, Has this gift from God.

To guide us in, Each step we take,

To live for Him, And for God’s sake.

Now as for “house”, Where saints did meet,

T’was located on, A tree-shaded street,

There in my boyhood, Town of “gold”,

From birth until, 13 years old.

And the only place, That I would “haunt”,

Is when I’d take, A happy jaunt,

To read God’s Word, And learn even more,

Of what God’s Spirit, Had in store,

For this young lad, Who need not fear,

Cause my “Friend With The Most”, Is always near!! ><>

October 28th…“DID SOMEONE EVER BET YOU MONEY TO DO SOMETHING?”

POEM – “Droopin’ From Hoopin’ ”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Eleven years older,  And mature beyond me,

I followed big brother, With awe and glee.

Whatever he said, Was the coolest joy,

So I was his shadow, This farmer’s boy.

Up high on the side, Of our Granary House,

Where many a cat, Caught many a mouse,

There hung a basketball, Hoop up high,

To me, t’was as high, As the clouds in the sky!

And when you are, A tiny tot,

Any coinage of money, Was really a LOT!

So brother called me, One day in the barn,

And began to give me, A money-laced yarn.

“Since you are so little, And not very tall”,

“I’ll bet you can’t take, This basketball”,

“And make a basket, Through Granary hoop”,

“Cause if you do, I’ll downward stoop”,

“To give you a Franklin, Fifty cent coin”,

“When you make that basketball hoop go BOING!”

The bet was on, Or so I thought,

As this mini-Munchkin, Fought and fought,

To get that basketball, Higher and higher,

Towards that 50 cent piece, I did aspire!

The ball hit the building, And bounced off of my head,

I was huffin’ and puffin’, Beginning to dread,

That that 50 cent coin, Would never rocket,

Out of my brother’s, Protective pocket.

Then out of the blue, My ball hit the hoop,

Round n round, It made the loop,

Then fell through the net, And touched every stitch,

“Hooray! Hooray!, Now I’d be rich!”

I ran to the barn, To get my cash,

But then my face, It turned to ash.

Jokester brother said, “No bet did we make.”,

“Cause to seal a bet, You always must shake!”

A lesson for me, Before coinage can turn,

Shake hands on a bet, Oh that I DID learn!!!

October 26th…“SHARE A MEMORY, FROM YOUR YOUNG MINNESOTA DAYS, WHEN YOU WERE VERY SCARED.”

A blood-curdling scream of imminent death exploded from my two year old mouth as the Ferrotitanium metal fuel, coupled with Sulfur, set off the Strontium Nitrate with searing temperatures that neared 3,000 degrees……and it was all coming right at my face!!!!

I was just sure I was about to die on that Independence Day evening at the home of our dear farming neighbors, Elmer and Margaret Simonson.

Well, o.k., truth be known…….someone had lit a little wire device called a “Sparkler” and had innocently tried to hand it to me while I was being carried around the yard by my mother.  At only two years of age, though, I had never seen such a wild fireworks device before, so it was only natural that I did some ‘sparkling’ of my own as I ‘lit up’ and howled in terror and hugged Mom something fierce as she carried me around that evening.

Farming communities tend to be close-knit and supportive of each other.  That familial support of neighbor helping neighbor ran the gamut of doing the work of a fellow farmer who was sick or injured, getting together to celebrate a newborn baby, even making meals and helping a family in mourning when a loved one died.  And, yes, our neighborhood farming community spirit even extended to inviting farm families that lived nearby to your farm to celebrate Independence Day.   There came that special Independence Day of 1956 when my family was one of many who were invited to drive down the long gravel driveway that led to a sheltered grove that encased the sweet Elmer Simonson farm.  In the waning hours of that sultry, summer’s evening of July 4th, our collective area families were preparing to enjoy some fun, food and fireworks.

The freedom that we all cherish in this nation was being embellished in the wholesome setting of the Simonson’s farm that evening with the happy sounds of children’s laughter.  Kindly farmers shared visiting with each other under the single yard light about the latest methods of agriculture and, in the distance of the house, one could hear ladies exchanging recipes and talking of their children.

The Minnesota sun was getting tired of shining on that long day, so it began to seek its own pillow in the thick, billowy clouds of the western horizon.  While my tiny two year old body was waddling and toddling around the Simonson’s yard that evening, I noticed it was getting harder for my young eyes to track the shenanigans of the older kids as they enjoyed playing “Hide N Seek” in the ever-increasing shadows of the approaching night.  In the spirit of Independence Day, some older person decided it was time to introduce one of the more docile forms of fireworks into the now dark surroundings below an ebony sky.   They ignited a common “Sparkler” and began waving its fire trails in a circular fashion.  To teenagers and adults, this was a very mild expression of Independence Day joys, but when someone made a “Sparkler” burst to life and brought it right AT ME, well now, THAT was a form of terror to this timid two year old.  Mom surely felt my ‘death grip’ around her neck as I tried to escape from what my little mind envisioned as pure death!!!

Trying to assuage my mortified little heart, Mrs. Simonson had empathy for me and invited my mother to carry me into the well-lit kitchen of their farm home.  While in the safe abode of mother’s arms, Mrs. Simonson proceeded to show me what an UNlit “Sparkler” looked like.  Seemed fairly tame to me in THAT form.  She then had Mom carry me over towards her gas stove as she lit a gas burner and then held the “Sparkler” near the flame.  In a very short while, a POOF…FIZZLE…FIRE SHOW began to happen.  This precious soul of a lady then went on to attempt to reason with this still scared widdo kid how the wire now made “pretty sparks”.   Her kindness DID seem to help quell some of my fears, but “Me was’m till berry tared (translated ….I was still very scared)” said this mini version of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  🙂

October 25th…“AS A FARMER BOY, WHAT WAS ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES THAT YOU HAD THERE ON YOUR FARM NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA?”

“You just stop right there, young man!!!”, she said as Mom, in her skirt and apron, leaned out of our farm home’s partially open back porch door.   “There’s no way you’re coming into THIS house with all those rocks!”   Our sweet mother, Clarice, seemed to have had her ‘mom radar sensitivity’ turned up high that day.  She was obviously alerted to her waddling young boy (from all my pockets packed with rocks) who approached our back porch screen door.  You see, every one of my myriad of bib overall pockets had been stuffed to overflowing with my latest batch of ‘gems’ that I had gleaned in yet another ‘treasure hunt’ up and down the gravel road that passed by our family farm.  I must’ve looked like a midget paratrooper ready to jump into Normandy on D-Day with all the heavy bulges weighing down every step I took.

For a little boy, with no money to jingle in my bib overall pockets, the next best thing was to stuff those pockets with the only other valuable commodity that I could think of and enjoyed………ROCKS!   Big ones, small ones, colored ones and especially those magical translucent ones of an agate nature.  Up against the spot light of the summer sun, I could see through them and enjoy their luster of color and marbling.

Being freed from the rigors of Grade School for the summer, you could find me, wearing my bibs and sauntering towards the long gravel road in front of our 120 acre farm.  The toughest decision for me, in those dear days, was, “Do I hunt for gems to the north towards the Charlie Heitzeg farm?  Or maybe find ‘gold’ to the south, towards the Chet Ozmun farm?”  There I’d be, happily whiling away the hours, conferrin’ with the flowers, consulting with the breeze on my knees…..as I sifted through uncountable, successive yards that grew into half miles of roadway rocks.   Poor Mom, it’s hard to figure how many new knee patches she had to  sew on to my bib overalls with all the crustaceous crawling I did with my rock-hounding hobby.

The musical jingle for a gum commercial used to sing, “Double your pleasure, Double your fun……”.   That’s what I did when I combined rock-hounding with playing my version of a ‘Commando Spy’ game.   When you consider the acute hearing of a child my age, and the placid beauty of a quiet countryside, that means I could hear a car or farm tractor from a long distance.  Sometimes I detected them before they even crested the hill north of our farm.  My imagination station would take over and I’d change from regal rock-hounder to World War II master spy.  In a blink, I’d roll myself off the road and down into the tall, soft grasses of our wide ditch alongside that rural gravel road.   The car, pickup or tractor rolling by had no idea they were under my super surveillance.  Once my ‘victims’ had passed by, then I’d crawl back up onto the roadway and resume my search for that special rock of rocks.

It doesn’t cost anything to dream, so that’s what I did with great abandon as I envisioned selling my gorgeous rock collection and becoming rich just like my comic book hero, “Richie Rich”.

The greatest ‘gem’ in my rock collection, though, actually found ME, instead of me finding IT.   The shimmering, glittering ‘gold piece’ was given to me as a gift from the son of my sweet Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Henry Wigern.

Our family visited the home of Maureen and “Hank” Wigern’s farm one evening.  Their handsome son, Ray, had recently graduated from High School and was so very kind to this little farm boy.  Ray invited me to keep him company, so he and I were in his bedroom, upstairs.  Ray brought out this black box with a snap-lock lid cover to it.  I popped that snap latch open and then raised the cover to see, what for me was a dazzling sight.  As far as I was concerned, what I saw was REAL GOLD!!!  In reality though, it was called Muscovite Mica.  I thanked Ray profusely (and did so in my heart for decades to come) for sharing the closest thing to GOLD that was ever known by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 24th…“WHAT KIND OF WATCH DID YOUR FATHER AND/OR GRANDFATHER CARRY ON YOUR FARM THERE IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “I’d Watch His Watch”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

I’d watch his watch, On leather tether,

Slide up out of farmer’s bib pocket,

To be glanced upon, To see the time,

Then gently placed back in its socket.

Even Grandfather, too, In his coveralls blue,

Whenever he’d come to chat,

Needed to know, What pocket watch would show,

To see just when the time was to scat.

For even a farmer, Would like to stretch time,

To get more work done in a day.

Or to get work all done, Afore setting of sun,

So he and the family could play.

I can still see my dad, While in front of this lad,

As he pulled pocket watch so sublime,

At knurled “crown”, He’d give twist, With nary a miss,

To keep those small gears right on time.

Even God’s Word, Tells about time,

When and what a farmer should do.

There was peace in this boy, And even a joy,

That Dad’s time piece would carry us through,

As day in, and day out, Daddy’s watch had the clout,

To honor God’s time and be true.

I was one happy lad, To be blessed with a Dad,

Who was punctual to enjoy each of life’s view.

October 23rd…“DID YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA HAVE AN ORCHARD?  DID YOU PICK APPLES AND HARVEST OTHER THINGS?”

POEM – “Green As An Apple”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Green as an apple, How envious you’d be,  If you had an orchard, As a kid like me.

The pioneer family, Who started our farm,  Made sure their loved ones, Would see no harm,

By planting many, Of fruiting tree,  That would feed them all, Through the years with glee.

Not only did we have, Apple and pear, Many other yummies, Were also there.

Rhubarb, plum, Asparagus, too,  And berries galore, To share with who,

Ever might come, A visiting by,  And taste our sweets, Saying, “My Oh My!!”,

Perched up high, In apple heights, This farmer boy, Could enjoy the sights,

Of watching Father, Farm our land, Our life was simple, But oh how grand.

All the time thinking, “I just may BUST!”, “Eating my apple, Wonder-lust!” 😉

October 22nd…“WHAT IS THE FARTHEST DISTANCE YOU EVER RAN OR WALKED?”

There are gazelles who bound gracefully and effortlessly across the plains of the Serengeti in Africa.  Our local ‘gazelle’, at Battle Ground High School in Battle Ground, Washington, wore our “Tiger” colors of black and orange.  Unlike the relatively level plains of the Serengeti, our ‘gazelle’, Keith Andersen, was raised on his family’s 300 acre mountain hillsides near Yacolt, Washington.  Keith’s passion was running and that’s exactly what he did, year in and year out, up and down those steep slopes of those forested hills.

‘Andy’ Andersen (as he was affectionately known) was an inspiration to us all!  Not only did he possess a buoyant smile and sparkling personality in daily life at school, but he dazzled everyone at Track Meets and at Cross Country race venues.  For instance, during Track Meets, at our District Stadium, Keith would start out with ‘the pack’ at the firing of the starting pistol.  ‘Andy’ began the mile run like everyone else in ‘the pack’, but at the end of the third lap, when the majority of ‘the pack’ of runners were showing distinct signs of exhaustion, ‘Andy’ would burst out of ‘the pack’ and leave everyone else ‘in his dust’ as he turned on the jets in his legs and left all the huffers and puffers behind.  There he was, breaking the ribbon and finishing First Place by sometimes as much as a half lap, or more.  His fellow “Tigers” in the Stadium Grandstand would go wild with cheering to see our hometown ‘gazelle’ race to the front and bring home the gold once again.  You see, after running the hills of his family’s hilly property near Yacolt, Washington, running on flat land was a ‘piece of cake’ for Keith Andersen.   Keith went on to win First Place in the Washington State Cross Country competition two years in a row for our school!!!   ‘Andy’ exemplified the Bible verse from Hebrews 12:1, that says, “…..And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

Keith Andersen inspired me to want to try Cross Country,  but he was just one of the  great young men on the Cross Country Team at Battle Ground High School.  Phil Kooken and Tom DeVilliers were very kind to this underclassman and invited me to experience what Cross Country running was all about.

As a 10th Grade Sophomore in High School that year, I unknowingly resembled the very definition of the word sophomore………“a person who is self-assured and opinionated, but crude and immature”.  That description fit me to a “T”.  I was too self-confident and opinionated that I could carry out what I had seen others do in Cross Country running.  My crudeness and immaturity showed up in the fact that I was not yet conditioned for running any type of long distance…..at all.  Phil, Tom, Clyde Cooper and others had made running look so easy as they’d glide over long distances with smooth and steady strides.

It was a crisp, fall afternoon after school one day when Tom, Phil and myself emerged from the west door of our school’s locker room.  As we did a number of stretching exercises, I could see our “Tiger” Grandstand and football field nearby.  That handsome Grand Stand venue had been completed in 1966, which was the year before we arrived in town back in 1967.  “O.K., let’s go.”, said Phil Kooken, and we three musketeers began to jog to the west and off our school grounds heading for what was then known as “Wayside Market”.  The fall sunshine was beginning to wane in the distance as we reached NE 112th Avenue (where the old Wayside Market used to stand) and turned our running appendages to the north.   For a novice, I thought I was holding out fairly well upon my “shank’s horses” (old term for your legs), but my huffin’ and puffin’ was becoming more pronounced.   Phil and Tom, conditioned veterans that they were, were still carrying on unbroken conversations and checking on this green-horn at the same time.

As we approached the half point turn, I’m beginning to muse, “What the HECK am I doing here?!?”  My teenage heart is pounding like a trip hammer inside my heaving rib cage that is gasping for more oxygen to fuel this strenuous endeavor.  As the three of us padded around the natural bend in the road that took us now to the east, I was faced with the stark reality that this pimple-faced harrier wannabe was not cut out for this form of a foot race.  Too far in to quit, I plodded on the best I could as we made another right turn and headed south on what was known then as the Lewisville Highway.   With my two upperclassmen championing the lead, this lil wheezer was doin’ his darndest to just stay alive and moving them thar legs.

Even though we were slogging our way back towards the High School campus now, I was beyond exhaustion as I looked down at my legs pounding away on the pavement below me and realized that I could no longer ‘feel’ them.  It was like looking at someone else’s legs that had been attached to my body when I wasn’t looking!!!  Spooky!!  Finally, thank Heaven, we were veering off the Lewisville Highway and down the slope back into the High School property.

Our total mileage for that run was maybe about 3 miles or so.  And, for a seasoned Cross Country runner, that was just a ‘snack’ to chew on when you consider the long miles of a real competition.  For me though, who was only used to doing a run of a mile a day in Physical Education classes, the run I had just completed was exponentially gigantic…….to me, at least.

My walk home from school that evening was a challenge in and of itself.  My legs felt like wobbly rubber and I was exhausted to the point of appearing ‘drunk’ as I tried to command this spent body of mine to walk the three blocks to our home on the north side of town.  Collapsing in bed after supper, I was ‘out like a light’.   Needless to say, the next morning, I could hardly move!!  Every joint and muscle in my young body ached to a crescendo of pain I hadn’t experienced before.  It was all I could do to get dressed and slowly drag myself to another day of school.

To this day, over half a century later, I still have great respect and inspiration from those dear souls who have the ability to run for long distances in Track or Cross Country.   The fact was cemented in my psyche that day, though, that CROSS Country made my body CROSS for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son 😉

October 21st…“DO YOU HAVE A STORY ABOUT STANDING UP AGAINST THE ODDS FOR SOMETHING YOU REALLY BELIEVED IN?”

“If someone is old enough to bleed and die for this country, then they should be old enough to vote, too!!!”.   These are the heated words that this 17 year old Norwegian Farmer’s Son said to my father that day as I fixed myself some lunch at our home in Battle Ground, Washington.  The air between Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, and myself was laden with electric acridity.  Having come from a farming background, our collision of ways, that day, could’ve been paralleled to two bulls in a pasture.  The younger bull snorting his intense energy of youth as he swings his testosterone-powered horns from side to side.  The older bull, much more seasoned, is not about to be bamboozled by the hoof-stomping charges to his seniority and stands his ground;  head lowered and ready for the charge, if necessary.

Our heated argument that day had been over the new law of our land that granted 18 year old citizens the right to vote in elections.  In earlier days, you had to be 21 years of age in order to vote.  My generation, at the time of the early 1970’s, was very passionate about the incongruity of being old enough to die in The Vietnam War for our nation, but not allowed to vote for what goes on in our nation.

“Awwww, yer just a KID!!!  Still wet behind the ears, yet!  You’re too young to know what’s good for ya, let alone think that you can be old enough to vote!”.…..so said our father to me that day.   Our voices were now reaching a terse echelon of engagement!  I was incredulous to the dichotomy of what Dad just said!   Someone my age was ‘wise enough’ to be obedient to their nation’s call to serve and possibly die in war, but NOT ‘wise enough’ (after being educated for 18 years) to vote for what goes on in our great nation?   I was now ‘lowering my horns’ for the charge of the young bull.

After another few verbal barrages between us, Dad could sense that it was time for he, as the patriarchal bull of the family, to settle this issue…..at least for the moment.   In response to another burst from my lips about this issue, Dad retorted, “WATCH IT, boy!  You’re still not too big for me to take ya down!!”  “As long as you abide in this house, you’ll abide by MY laws!”  

The maturity of the elder bull, my father, had won out over the immaturity and blustering blather of this young bull, ……me.   Besides, I thought to myself, as I then allowed the argument to dissolve back into daily life, what would I have gained if I HAD escalated the incident?  What if it HAD come to a physical altercation between our family patriarch and myself?   There would’ve been absolutely no honor in fisticuffs, or shoving or pushing.   Any action like that brings only a muteness to any idealistic goal that one was pursuing in the first place.  And, besides, I loved my father, Russell, too deeply to allow a forever wound to transpire between us.  It was best to quiet down and honor him for his position as leader of our family and just agree to disagree on this subject.

So, as it turned out, my patience and acquiescence paid off, after all, because the next year (with that new law on the books) I was then 18 years of age and enjoyed the immense pleasure and responsibility of voting for the first time for the next President of our country.   Such was the great experience for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.