October 20th…“SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT THE SEASON OF FALL.”

POEM – “The Fragrant Felicity of Fall”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

One doesn’t fall into fall, at all,

But transcends into gentle bliss,

For the good Lord above,

Doesn’t push or shove,

But instead, Gives each tree His kiss.

Each sapphire morn, As her new day was born,

Fall unfurled yet another surprise,

During dark, crisp of night, Her handsome young sprite,

Painted another fall scene for my eyes.

“Jack Frost” was no thief, As he turned every leaf,

Into colors that none could compare,

For perfume he bestowed, To fall’s beauty he owed,

As sun chased him, He left cologne there.

No one dared rescind, The power of wind,

As he commanded those millions of leaves,

Some still on the trees, Were ripped by his breeze,

In vortex and subject to heaves,

As wind takes them miles, And lays them in piles,

To eventually settle for best,

Such are thoughts of fall, Where we don’t fall, at all,

As God quiets His world for a rest.

October 19th…“WAS AN INJUSTICE EVER PERPETRATED AGAINST YOU?”

In a perfect world, it would be wonderful to be loved by everyone.  But, alas, I too have enemies and they ganged up on me in 2001.  Like vultures circling in the sky above me, these fellow co-workers waited for their prey (me) to show them a sign of weakness so they could pounce on me and destroy me.  Then, with me out of the way, they would feast on the spoils of their conniving ways.

Two fellow subordinate workers, at the place of employment where I was their supervisor, decided that I was unworthy of the position that I held there.  They conspired to see my demise and demotion from that job.  How do I know they conspired?  Because a very dear friend of mine overheard their dastardly deliberations.  As a widow, and with lots of work to do, this friend would often stay late into the evenings to “go the extra mile” to get things ready for the next day to go smoothly.  She would move from room to room of this facility to get various jobs accomplished.  Unknown to my enemies, and since these rooms were only divided by thin folding walls, my kind friend was privy to many of my enemy’s “so called” secret discussions about me in the evenings while they plotted my destruction.  My sincere friend kept copious notes of these two “Judas” associates as to what they were plotting.

The death knell for me, was when this mean-hearted twosome felt their time was right.  The two backstabbers concocted a lie-filled story that was presented to an administrator where I was employed.  I was ordered to appear before a kangaroo court of INjustice.  Up to this point, and over my many decades of employment there, I had looked up to this administrator and thought him to be a fine and integral person.  But sadly, he also became my enemy that day as he fully swallowed all of their falsehoods and even refused to show me the allegedly damning evidence that was in his possession.   When I’d ask him to show me his evidence, he’d just say, “You don’t want to go there!!!” 😦

Metaphorically speaking,  I was then lined up against the proverbial wall and “shot” with those lies.   The employees union that was supposed to have supported me in this battle was completely spineless and “kissed up” to the prevailing desires of the administrator judge and jury.  No matter how I tried to rise to my defense, the “loaded” jury came back GUILTY and I was demoted and removed from that place of employment and sent to a graveyard shift at another location.  My dear friend, that I spoke of earlier, came forward with her documentation of the evil intent of those scumbags, but her efforts fell on dead ears and her documentation was not considered admissible within the hierarchy of the kangaroo court that only sought one thing……my degradation, demotion and punishment……along with my resulting major depression.  Needing to be able to pay bills and feed my family, and feeling backed up against a rock and a hard place, I felt I had no choice but to acquiesce to the trumped up charges and suffer the lesser of the evils of punishment.  I did so under duress and felt I had no other avenues of justice if I wanted to continue employment in that place and be able to provide for my wife and children.  Since the union I belonged to had “sold me down the river”,  I had no choice, but to endure the sentence leveled against me.

Needless to say, I lost all respect for that administrator, the two evil cohorts of this crime against me, and contempt for the overall organization that was supposed to have governed the affairs of that entity with justice and equality.

One of the saddest chapters of life for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 18th…“WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY IN MINNESOTA, DID YOU AND YOUR DAD HAVE A SPECIAL FATHER AND SON OUTING?”

Prologue:  My hardworking father, Russell, was usually consumed with the rigors of farming and seeing that his family had food on the table each day.  Yet, there was a very special day when work was set aside for some cherished time with me.  We took a fishing trip up the gravel road to the north of our farm to a body of water known as Rice Lake.  Today’s poem describes that special time with my dad.

POEM – “You’d Be Amazed”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

You’d be amazed, How a bamboo pole,

And time away, That we gladly stole,

From farming’s chores, That steal away,

Those happy day’s hours, That are meant for play.

But on this day, My dad took time,

To spend with me, Which was sublime.

For often, I had, Done some wishin’,

Now here, this day, We’d do some fishin’.

“Get the pole, my boy, Too long for the car”, 

“This fishing toy, Is long by far!”, 

“You’ll need to grip, That bamboo spar”,

“Outside the window, Of our car!”.

So down the dusty, Road we flew,

Watch out fish!!, Here comes we two.

Arriving at a lake, That folk called, Rice,

We found a spot, We thought was nice.

Skewered worm, Upon the hook,

Plastic bobber, Where I’d look,

To see if mighty, Bullhead would,

Bite that fish hook, Like he should.

Sure enough, When time was right,

That big ol’ Bullhead, Made his bite.

My dad yelled, “YANK!, And set the hook!”,

I did and caused, My pole to crook!,

That bamboo bent, Near 90 degree,

Now fish outta water, Flying right at me!,

I ducked, It flew, Right o’er my head,

And hit the ground, But it t’weren’t dead.

It flopped and flipped, All o’er the place,

Till Dad smacked fish, Right in fish face.

Such fun adventures, With Dad that day,

When we ran from work, For a day of play! 😉

October 17th…“DID YOU EVER LOSE SOMETHING REALLY IMPORTANT TO YOU?”

POEM – “Of All The Things”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Of all the things I’ve lost,

I miss my mind the most.

Especially when, I’m all undone,

My brains become milquetoast.

From the very beginning ,

When the good Lord doled out brains,

I guess I didn’t hear Him from,

The back room playin’ trains.

This gullible cuss, Won’t make a fuss,

I’ve learned to live life simple.

I just smile a bunch, Cause I’ve got a hunch,

Folks love to see a dimple!! 😉

October 16th…“TELL ABOUT PULLING OR LOSING A BABY TOOTH.”

The clangiteebang, clangiteebang of the slow, chugging freight train cars sent a rumble up the small hillside and right into Grandpa Noorlun’s garden where I stood on a knoll above the scene I mentioned.   I’ll bet the vibration helped to shake loose the potatoes in the ground that he was beginning to harvest.  Grandpa Ed’s version of farming nowadays was in his small garden here on the outskirts of the town of Lake Mills, Iowa.  He, and our grandmother, Marie (Tollefson) Noorlun were now in the ‘early winter’ of their years and had stepped down from the full scale farming they used to do with horses in years gone by.

Our paternal grandparents were blessed with five sons and three lovely daughters.  With a crew of kids like that, it was time for a family rebellion………errrr, ummm, make that a family reUNION at Ed and Marie’s comfortable home there in Lake Mills.  😉

It was a grand occasion to see uncles and aunties gathering to share the shade of the lovely elm trees on their parent’s property.   With each family’s arrival, more stories were shared about each other’s kin and life in the various parts of our United States from whence each family came for this celebratory event.

Even though I was a tiny tyke of 5 or 6 years, at the time, I was mesmerized by the beauty of my father’s youngest sister, Lillian!  She, and her handsome husband, Gene Greenspun, resided in the giant “Big Apple” metropolis of New York, New York.  Lillian’s stunning beauty had garnered her a job in the fashion industry as a model.  Uncle Gene had made a name for himself, also, in New York, as a toy manufacturer.  Gene had even designed and marketed a silly bedtime slipper called, “Crazy Feet”.  His inspiration for creating those slippers came from a clay carving/molding he had done of an exaggerated prototype of Lillian’s own feet while they were playing cards with their friends one evening.

Aunt Lillian’s arrival was kinda like the grand finale of this family time, since other brothers and sisters were already clustered under the cool shade trees and jabbering away.  As my gorgeous aunt and uncle’s little sports car wheeled its way into the wide yard, a holler was sent up the knoll to my grandparent’s house and announced, “Lillian and Gene are here!!!”.   Hearing that happy news, I zipped out of that patriarchal abode and commanded my little feet to fly down that knoll to meet my lovely auntie for a hug!

Most of us have heard the saying, “Haste makes waste”.   Well, its mantra sure proved true in my case that day.  As I descended that knoll at full speed, gravity began to accelerate my flying feet.  My ‘command control center’ (otherwise known as my brain), radioed a message to the rest of me saying, “DANGER, DANGER!  TOO FAST! TOO FAST!”.   Sure enough, I was quickly losing my balance.  The widening eyes of Dad’s brothers and sisters confirmed to me my feelings as they saw I was about to crash.   And, so I did, with an abrupt face plant into the dirt right in front of my darling Aunt Lillian.  As she graciously picked me up, from grass level, and began to dust me off, she noticed (and I could feel) that my baby front tooth had been bludgeoned from it’s original place in my mouth.

The remnant of my tooth was now hanging from its proverbial ‘thread’.  One little “toink” from my auntie and it was now a piece of dental history in my hand.  She even took a Polaroid picture of me holding that tooth.  As the photo magically developed before our eyes, it was evident that I held that tonsorial trophy up proudly as if I had been a big game hunter on safari in Africa.  From now on, when I smiled, I could feel and hear that wind blow through the cavern in the itty bitty mouth of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 15th…“IN THEIR YOUNG DAYS, ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, WHAT WAS THE RELATIONSHIP LIKE BETWEEN YOUR ELDER BROTHER AND SISTER?”

POEM – “Two Tiny”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Two tiny tender toddlers, Tethered by love’s sweet bond,

As if they had been welded, By Norwegian magic wand.

Separated by a whole three years, Yet close and one in heart.

Twins in joy and mischief, With giggles from the start.

Oh sure, they had their tussles, When tiny tempers flew,

But, overall, emotions would fall, And their bonding they’d renew.

Like when “Big Jon and Sparky”, Was on our radio,

They’d almost collide, As they’d slip n slide, To hear their favorite show.

Before cell phones and video games, Back in the days of yore,

Brother and sister would read their books, And create such fun galore.

Like climbing trees, Or playing in the hay, On imagination’s ride,

Or using the wealth, Of children’s stealth, As they’d play both Seek and Hide.

Then along came little brother, In January ’54,

Big brother and sis, Just couldn’t miss, The chance to hug babe more.

Even baby Sis, Got every kiss, They could give in ’55.

Both Lowell n Rose, Would kiss her toes, To see Candice alive and thrive 😉

It seemed no matter, Which way I turned, I had the comfort of,

Knowing their guidance, And chastening, too, Was guided by their love.

In less than a blink, They both were grown, To handsome lad and lass,

And soon life took, Them each their way, From our daily lives, They’d pass.

A richer man, I’ll always be, To have seen the love they shared,

It was just too plainly obvious, These two siblings really cared.

October 14th…“SHARE A STORY ABOUT HARVEST TIME WITH YOUR FATHER ON YOUR MINNESOTA FARM.”

That Granary building on our farm was like a giant oatmeal cookie just waiting to happen! 😉  At least that’s one fun way to describe the crop that was stored inside that centennial, two-story wooden repository.   I’m told that this building of purpose was one of the first and therefore the oldest structures built by the pioneer family who homesteaded this acreage in the 1800’s.  Attached to the Granary, was an “L-shaped”, wrap-around machine shed on the north and west flanks of this structure.  That was the place of protection for our father’s alfalfa baling machine and also may have been the storage for a grain harvester called a “combine” (which cut and processed the oat plants) that has something to do with today’s story.

It is a well-known fact that many millions of kids and adults enjoy their “Cheerios” breakfast cereal each morning.  “Cheerios” are made from oats, just like the crop that our father, Russell, grew on our farm.  So, for our family, I guess you could say that, instead of just “Cheerios” we also had CHEERY COWS cause they loved their grains, too!  Oats, corn and other grains helped to grow our herd of Holstein dairy cows to be plump and healthy.   A bovine, with a good appetite, can eat as much as 27 pounds of grain per day.  With that need in mind, it’s no wonder our farmer dad had to harvest and store away as much grain as he could in the fall for the coming cold winter months. With an abundance of grain held in storage, Dad would be able to properly feed the ravenous cravings of our various livestock.   Animals, just like you and me as humans, enjoy a good meal every morning and evening (besides them munching on grass in the pasture all day during spring and summer).

The rising sun, that day, was just as golden as our oat fields as it sparkled up out of the eastern sky.  Dad had serviced and gassed up our tractors, gathered grain wagons and even a device called a grain auger to help ‘elevate’ the oats up into their new storage home after being harvested out in our fields.  I recall at least a few extra helpers at the farm, on days like this, to assist with the harvesting operation.   Sometimes, our dad hired local folk, and other times, family and/or neighbors came by to ‘give a hand’ of love and sweaty labor to get this job done before winter was once again upon us.   Dad, in his good Christian upbringing, would always repay the kindness of those neighbors by making himself available to help them when a harvest time was happening at their nearby farms.

Sometimes, work and pleasure could be happily mingled.  Like the time our Colorado cousins arrived at our farm just as Dad was airing up the grain wagon tires in preparation for the harvest about to commence.   A grain wagon full of oats could weigh up to two tons (4,000 pounds), so those tires had to be in good condition and fully inflated to safely haul that golden load in from the fields.

As our trustworthy Farmall tractors began to pull the first loads of grain into our farm yard, our father already had a grain auger positioned and lifted up to the high swinging door at the top of our Granary roof-line.  At the top, the funnel apparatus of the auger was then placed inside that small doorway and secured.  This auger machine resembled a long, metal tube.  Inside that metal tube was a very long, corkscrew shaft with cylindrical ‘spiral wheels’ that ‘filled’ that tube.  Connected to the base of that metal tube contraption was a hinged metal basket called the grain hopper.   A tractor would pull its wagon of oats just past the grain hopper and stop.  The hopper, on its hinges, was then let down behind the wagon and a door on the wagon was pulled open to allow oats to begin filling the grain hopper.   When the auger machine was energized, by a large electric motor (or otherwise), the corkscrew ‘wheels’ now began to turn round and round to send the oats up, up, up ….through the tube and out the funnel device at the top and down into the Granary itself.

Dad chose to enlist my young muscles that day to help him in this important farming event.  I was honored and happy to help.  It made me feel ‘grown up’ to be considered worthy to assist and no longer be relegated to just being a too-young bystander to life there on the farm.  I found this experience to be a good bonding time, too, between my father, Russell, and myself.   Besides, like Dad would say, “For every shovel full you take, that’s one I don’t have to make!”  😉  We were a team that day.  Farmers in in the same ‘harness’ together.

Our family’s Granary was composed of two large rooms downstairs, and two upstairs.  The doorways of each room had wooden tracking on each side in which boards could be slid down, one at a time, to close those doorways off as each granary room filled with grain.  The second story rooms of the granary had a large rectangular opening in the center of the floor.  As the grain came in from the grain auger, a funnel ‘sock’ would be aimed at that floor opening to allow grain to go below to fill the bottom room first.  When the bottom room was filled, a rectangular ‘door’ was placed in the opening of the floor so that the upper grain rooms could now be filled to the roof, almost, with subsequent wagon loads of more oats.

As we two fellow Norwegian farmers entered the Granary that day, I vividly recall the fragrant and rich aroma of the oats filling our wooden ark that would keep our animals alive during the ‘flood’ of winter that would soon be here.  To protect our lungs from at least some of the heavy oat dust flying everywhere, my father took one of his large, red bandanna handkerchiefs and, after wetting it, tied it around my head to cover my nose and mouth as a form of a dust filter.  He then did the same for himself.   Though the bandanna procedure was necessary, I thought it also a bit comical how Dad and I now looked like two cowboy bank robbers from The Old Wild, Wild West days!! 😉

Up the Granary stairs we climbed to the second-story rooms to help guide the grain that was soon to arrive from the auger.   Once settled upstairs with our grain shovels in hand, Dad would give a shout or a loud whistle to a worker below who would start the long-reaching grain auger running.   Dad and I shoveled furiously as we sent the incoming oats off into the corners of each upper room so that we could pack the building as full as possible with this golden harvest.  The auger funnel above us continually poured dry ‘rivers’ of grain inside from the wagons down below that disgorged themselves of their amber cargo.   As I shoveled grain diligently, in that upper Granary room, the sunlight came through the window and was doubly amber from the thick dust of the oats falling all around us as the grain filled the room.   That lighted shaft of oat dust was so thick, I could barely see my father across that small room as we worked.

In comparison to today’s giant farming practices, our Granary was quite tiny.  Yet, for us, it was the means to an end of caring for all the animals on our farm who loved a good meal throughout the year, especially in the frigid winter when the world around us was dead cold and covered in snow.

As I look back, my job that day was a small part for a small boy to do.  Yet, it was still a part of the success of that day’s needs on our farm there in beautiful southern Minnesota.  I had felt very close to my Dad that day in our teamwork up there in those dust-choked grain rooms and it made me proud to be a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 13th…“SHARE AT LEAST ONE WAY THAT YOUR FARMER FATHER WENT THE “EXTRA MILE” FOR HIS ANIMALS ON YOUR FARM.”

Like the crack of a whip, a brutal, ice-laced wind whipped around the corner of our Hog House and stung Dad’s face as he approached our ‘piggy palace’ there on our farm in southern Minnesota.  Winter along this glacial moraine could be deadly to man and beast, but our father had been raised in northern Minnesota, so his ‘constitution’ was fixed on surviving and thriving, no matter what.

No man could call himself a farmer without having an abiding love and caring heart for the animals that God had put into that mortal’s care.  Our hard-working father, Russell, was well-ensconced in those admirable virtues, and this is just one of those occasions when he let his loving heart direct his actions.

The screeching blizzard winds that night, buffeting our Hog House, had swirled eddies of snow against the door of this wooden edifice of animal protection.  Between kicking the snow from side to side with his buckled boots, and yanking on the door itself, Dad was able to gain entry into the abode of amber-colored heat lamps in the different hog pens and farrowing crates on either side of a straw-strewn center aisleway.

Some of the hog pens had within them protection devices called farrowing crates.  These were usually of a metal tubular construction and kept momma sow ‘in check’ so that she wouldn’t, inadvertently, hurt her little ones.   Sows were often known to just go ‘kerPLOP’ on their sides when the wanted to lay down.   The problem with this scenario is that tiny piggies didn’t always have the common sense to see that their momma was falling their way and could get crushed under her weight.  With momma sow now in the farrowing crate, she would have to first drop to her knees, and then stick her legs out the sides of the crate in order to lay flat for feeding her cute little pink, corkscrew-tailed darlings.   As a little farmer boy, I had often watched this new, safety-oriented process happen.  It was almost as if you could hear the little grunters squealing (in their oinky language)…...”WATCH OUT!!!! MOM’S COMING DOWN!!!” as they scattered in a myriad of directions before returning to ‘mom’s milk bar’ for a meal.  😉

Our good-hearted daddy, on a number of occasions, was known to bring some of the runt (extra tiny and sickly) pigs up to our farm house and settle them in a box behind our wood/gas cooking stove in the family kitchen.  Maybe the mother sow had rejected these tiny ones.  Maybe there just weren’t enough milk nipples on the mom pig for these puny porcine princesses to get enough milk from their mother.   Whatever the occasion, father knew when little ones of his animal kingdom needed some extra care and love.   Dad would unzip his outer jackets and sweaters and then tenderly slip a piglet, or two, into the warmth of his own body cocoon as he protected them from any biting blizzard winds that were sure to steal his (and their) breath away as he carried them up to enjoy rest, relished warmth and rejuvenation behind the cozy stove of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 12th…“WHAT WISDOM DID YOU GLEAN FROM AN EXTENDED FAMILY MEMBER?  LIKE AN UNCLE OR SOMEONE.”

Spectacular, undulating Northern Lights in the frigid, ebony night sky.  Snowmobiling at midnight with a full moon so bright that its reflection off the pristine white of the snow made the joy of the moment feel like daytime.  Moose coming out of the forest to run alongside the car…….these, and other scenarios, are just an inkling of the wonder of the life that was lived by my Uncle Barney Hollembaek.

Even as children, our lives intersect with those whose persona and life-force manifesto sets them in a class of a ‘folk hero’ type of being.  That was exactly what I perceived in the life of my Uncle Byron J. “Barney” Hollembaek.  Not only was he a tall, strapping man in his physical stature, but he carried himself in a tall way, also, by how he walked and talked and did business, as well.  Without a doubt, he was a special man that I found to be very impressionable and fascinating in my young life.  My father’s lovely sister, Ileen, married Barney either during, or shortly after World War II and they saw life together in the wild 49th State of Alaska.

The pleasant city of Palmer, Alaska was hometown to the Hollembaek family when I had the great adventure to travel there in 1972.  Barney owned and operated an agricultural supply store in town.  If my memory serves me right, it was called “Knik Farm Supply”.   That thriving farming community was nestled up against the Chugach Mountain Range.  That jagged mass of mountains had been launched straight into the sky by Almighty God Himself with majestic Pioneer Peak looking down from its lofty 6,000 foot perch.

Alaska was, and still is a growing State in our grand nation.  As agricultural needs in that area of Alaska arose, Uncle Barney would make trips down to the “Lower 48” (States) to purchase machinery, supplies and even animals that his clients needed for their Alaskan farms and businesses to flourish.  On one such buying trip, that brought our uncle through southern Minnesota, we found that Barney had purchased a number of cows called “Brown Swiss”.   Something in his schedule necessitated that the “Brown Swiss” had to be kept safe and secure for a short while until Barney could arrange for them to complete their journey to the “North Star State”.   Our beloved farmer friend, Harry Bauman, had some barn space and offered to bed those bovines for whatever time was needed before shipping could happen.   That evening, after our dairy herd had been milked, we followed Uncle Barney’s monstrously large cattle truck up to Harry’s farm.  There I stood, bathed in a single yard light and in complete awe of the immense size of these gentle giants of the bovine family as they were unloaded from Barney’s big cattle truck and into Harry’s barn.   In later years, I researched and found out that this sturdy breed of animal was first bred in Switzerland and, therefore, could survive the numbing cold of Alaskan winters just as their ancestors did on the mountain slopes that were shadowed by the mighty Matterhorn Mountains.

In the Spring of 1972, I was a young buck of 18 years when my folk hero, Uncle Barney, flew into the nearby airport of Portland, Oregon.  We were thrilled to pick him up at the airport and give him a heapin’ helpin’ of our hospitality at our home across the State Line in Battle Ground, Washington.   Besides busying himself with business nearby, Barney had come to our home to retrieve and personally drive a 1969 Ford Mustang all the way back to Alaska.  We had been keeping the car safe for Barney’s son, Scott, who had dropped it off with us and flown to Hawaii for a construction job.  As visiting went back and forth that evening, Uncle Barney turned to me and said, “Hey Elliott!  Would you like to ride along with me back up to Palmer and keep me company on the journey?”   OHHHH BOYYY!!! Would I???!!  Hot dog!!

What a chance for adventure!  As a Senior in school that year, my high school was out on Spring Break anyway, so I had those days open for fun.  And, as far as my Box Boy employment at Al & Ernie’s Grocery Store, my manager gave me his blessings to take the opportunity and gave me at least a week off, too!  I was STOKED!!!

The Old Testament Book of Proverbs 19:20 plays a role in each Christian’s life as we have the opportunity to learn wisdom from, not only our parents but, other elders who have experienced so much more in this journey of life than we have.  In this case, my dear uncle taught me so many things on that adventure-filled drive that we shared together.  Just one of those nuggets of knowledge had to do with winter season driving techniques.  Early in our journey, as we crossed the Canadian border from Washington State, Barney said that he’d rather drive a car when the temperature is 30 degrees BELOW zero rather than 30 degrees ABOVE zero.  The logic behind that preference was that super cold temperatures help to make the tires literally “stick” to the road for better traction.  One morning, as we exited our motel room, I was about to find out, first hand, how that sharing of his wisdom was going to be applied.   With breakfast in our tummies, we saw that the temperature was right at the freezing mark of 32 degrees…..a rather jeopardizing omen.  The morning sun was going to be adding its warmth to road conditions…..which was another key for trouble.   As far as our chariot, my Cousin, Scott Hollembaek, had fine-tuned the engine of that ’69 Mustang to the zenith of performance perfection.   So, needless to say, Uncle Barney and I were climbing into a blue powerhouse of pulsating pistons just yearning to have us ‘put the pedal to the metal!!’…..but, hopefully, not over a cliff.  Barney, like a kid in a candy shop, punched that Mustang through her gears and away we went down the Alaska/Canadian (AlCan) Highway.

I’m so thankful to the Lord, that Uncle Barney was at the wheel that slippery morning and not this ignorant kid.  I wouldn’t be here writing this, if I had been driving.  As we rounded a corner of that snow-packed gravel road, we saw about a 1,000 foot drop-off into a canyon to our left.  The combination of higher temperatures and warming sunshine had ‘set a trap’ for us.  In a blink, that Ford began to ‘fish tail’ (which is the back end of the car slipping from side to side, like a fish’s tail does in swimming) on the partially melting, ice-packed road.  My eyes were as big as a dinner plate in fear, but my hero, Uncle Barney, automatically put his decades of Alaska driving skills to use that day.  He knew exactly how to spin that steering wheel to bring the car back from the canyon’s precipice and keep the ‘Stang on the road.  When the ‘powerhouse of pistons’ would buck the vehicle the other way, Barney, once again, reined it into control.  All the while this was going on, Barney was literally talking to the car, as if it were a wild woman personified……..“Come on Honey!!  You can do it!!  Stay on the straight, Dearie!!  Smooth out and fly right, Kid!”  As our side to side, fish-tailing necessitated, my uncle was spinning that steering wheel one direction, and then the other to make that 3,000 pound metal marvel obey his commands and resume a straight line of driving along that ice-encrusted highway towards Alaska with a very grateful Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 11th…“TELL US A ‘YARN’ FROM YOUR BARN IN YOUR YOUNG MINNESOTA DAYS.  TRUE STORY, YA?”

The 1892 birth certificate said, “Not a peep from this one!”.  Well, at least that’s what the record should have said, because Morten Ingvald Holstad was about the quietest baby to be born in Iowa State that year.  Even being as young as I was, in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s,  I was able to discern that Morten was the most word-conservative man I’ve ever known.  Pleasant in his ways, and with nary a spoken decibel, Morten went about farming the rich soil his wife inherited, northwest of Kiester, Minnesota, until he heard of a young family looking for a chance to work a farm of their own.

Around the year 1945, Morten was now 53 years old and looking to slow down and and take a rest from the rigorous life of farming.   I’m told, he, along with his wife (Tina), hoped to find a more relaxed change of pace from the strenuous ways of farm life and ‘retire to town’ in Kiester.   Our sweet parents, Russell and Clarice, had been working as ‘hired hands’ for our ‘other grandparents’, Wally and Genevieve Mutschler.  The Mutschler’s beautiful farm lay just to the north of the Holstad acreage.  Unaware of the availability of the Holstad farm, just down the gravel road, our parents left the employ of the Mutschlers and moved just south of the Iowa State Line to an area known as Vinje, Iowa to rent and work a farm in that area.  Mom and Dad named that property, “Cocklebur Hill” for the extensive, football-shaped prickly weed that grew in that area.

It so happened, that while our father, Russell, had gone uptown to Kiester, Minnesota for some shopping,  he ‘ran into’ Morten Holstad and had a nice visit.  Morten then informed Dad that he heard from Wally Mutschler that our parents were looking for a long-term farm to rent.  If he had known earlier, our parents could’ve moved a full year earlier to HIS place, less than a mile from the Mutschler’s home, without having to have made the move down into Iowa.  Dad and Mom gladly accepted Morten and Tina’s offer to rent their farm and another move was made ‘back home’ to the dear acreage that became the Noorlun farm from 1946 until 1967 when Dad sold the farm to move to Washington State.

From here, I relate a true story (shared to me) that transpired in our barn sometime before I came on the world’s scene in 1954.

Some of you may have heard the term of a ‘mouse in the house’?  Well, get ready for a twist of that phrase.

In later years, our parents actually signed papers to begin purchasing the farm from the Holstads, but for now, even being semi-retired, we often had Morten and Tina (as landlords) stop by for visits and helping on our farm.  Our dear neighbors, the Mutschlers, were also frequent visitors to our farm.  It was on one of those occasions that one of the Mutschler family’s handsome young sons, Darrel, came along with his daddy, Wally.

Like any lil’ whippersnapper, Darrel had the energy of a fireball and to occupy his time, this little guy had come across a mouse in our barn and was in hot pursuit of that tiny creature who was literally running for his minuscule life!  As a reference point for the location of this adventure; between the very tall, cement silo (which stored our chopped green corn called silage) and the main barn, there was a small, connecting building we called the Silage Room.   Our kind-hearted, quiet, friendly farmer landlord, Morten, was in the Silage Room doing some sort of work to help our father, Russell.   In the meantime, bearing down on his furry victim, Darrel had raced down the center manger aisle of the barn and burst into the Silage Room where very quiet Morten was.   Breathlessly, he darted his eyes back and forth!! Darrel asked Morten, “Mr. Holstad, did you see my mouse?  I chased him in here!!!”.  

Without so much as a stir of emotion, dear old Morten stealthily reached down inside his bib overalls.  The old farmer grabbed for a wild, tiny creature and then pulled out the mouse that had just ran up his leg under his overall pants.  That terrified mouse had clawed his way up Morten’s leg to ‘get up in the world’!!! Hehehe!! 😉  With wiggling prize in hand, Morten asks little Darrel, “Is this the one you’re looking for?”.

With saucer-wide eyes, the little tyker was amazed how relaxed this old, friendly farmer was after having his ‘privates’ invaded by a scratching, clawing and frantic, furry friend seeking sanctuary.  Darrel accepted Morten’s flailing ‘gift’ and went off amazed at what had just occurred.  There was just no way that a mini, marauding, mouse’s meanderings would ruffle the feathers of Morten Ingvald Holstad in the barn of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉