Category Archives: Children’s story

Thor’s Stories: Leprechauns

St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner even when a Minnesota spring does not appear to be.  Snow, snow and more snow.

I hope you enjoy these hilarious stories about a young boy named Thor…his imagination and his adventures with the leprechauns that live in his back yard.

Thor conquers his backyard foes, saves his friends and overcomes tricky and sometimes sticky situations using his imagination and simple household items all before his father gets home from work.

I strongly believe that unrestricted free play is still what is best for children.  They need to let their imaginations and energy go wild…everyday!  I know I do.

I hope these colorful stories bring lots of smiles….and a break from all of many shades of white and grey that is snow, snow and more snow.

The Swedish Farmer's Daughter

There are eight different stories in this series about the ingenuity and adventures of a boy named Thor.  If you are looking for a few tales about Leprechauns to share on St. Patrick’s day,   Leprechauns tend to run amok in five of these stories.

Below are links to all of Thor’s adventures and a brief description of the story line.
I hope you and your children enjoy Thor’s Stories.

Morton the Squirrel and the Great Chicken Race.  Thor and Morton begin their battle for supremacy of the backyard when the rascally squirrel goes after the boy’s chickens.

Morton the Squirrel and the Mighty Explosion.  Grandpa Walter saves Thor from an overwhelming squirrel attack.

Thor and Grandpa Walter Find Blueberries and Bigfoot.  Thor and Grandpa Walter find more than just blueberries in the woods on Minnesota’s North Shore.

Thor and the Rooster Pirate King.This story tells about…

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What Is On My Mind Today? I Already Wrote A Story About My Cancer Battle…….The Hen Who Wanted To Fly

I have many times been told that I should write a story about my struggle with cancer.  I did several years ago. This one. The Hen Who Wanted To Fly.  So, today I have spent the entire day, instead of baking and wrapping gifts, being my own editor.

I am the hen, chickens are humanity, the farmer is God, and the weasel is cancer.  The ducklings are the young people mentored through the years who grow up to care for us….nurses, doctors…the scientists who dream up new treatments.

It is important to note, that the part about the hen hatching out the orphaned wild duck eggs is true.  That actually happened on our farm. Our poor old hen completely panicked  the first time she saw her “babies” swim.

Little known Pat fact:  For two summers when I worked for Democratic Secretary of State Mark Ritchie, I was on Lieutenant Governor Carol Molnau’s State Fair Celebrity Ag Team.  I competed in animal calling.  I was reserve grand champion both years.  Finishing second both times to the the entire Department of Agriculture Team.  My ribbons are huge!

The first year, I called in the cows.  The second year, I was the wildly clucking hysterical hen whose babies went swimming.

 

Children’s Story: The Hen Who Wanted To Fly

Once upon a time there was a farmer.  On his farm lived many different kinds of animals.  He was a kind farmer and was always very good to his animals for he loved them very much.

As fond as he was of all of his animals, he had a special fondness for his chickens. The farmer really liked chickens.  Of all of his chickens his favorite was an old hen named Henrietta.

Henrietta had been on his farm for many years, in fact she was the oldest chicken in his flock. In her youth she had been a very good egg layer and mother to the many chicks she had hatched.  She was almost always friendly to the other chickens, even when some of them had not been so friendly to her.  She was never the prettiest, or the smartest hen in the farmer’s flock, nor was she the most popular hen in the coop, but Henrietta was okay with all that, because she knew she was special.  She had a secret that made her different than all the other chickens.

What was her secret?  Henrietta wanted to fly.

Many times she had practiced flapping her wings and running as fast as she could across the chicken yard attempting to fly over the chicken coop fence, but she never could get off the ground.  Practice makes perfect she figured, so she just kept trying until time caught up with her and she had to admit she was no longer a plucky pullet, but a large old hen.

The many changes of nature to her mechanics, did not diminish her dream of chicken flight.  When she became a mother she decided that if she could not fly, maybe her chicks could be the first chickens to take flight. Regardless, of the countless hours of wing flapping and running while wing flapping, none of her chicks ever achieved lift off.

Many years passed by.  Now, in old age Henrietta would sit outside the chicken coop on warm summer days lost in memories.  She no longer laid eggs or mothered chicks, but spent most of her time dreaming about the good old days.  Those golden days when she was needed by the farmer and greatly loved by her chicks.  Day after day she felt less and less useful as she watched pretty perky pullets flirting with the roosters and young hens mothering their new chicks.

Then, she would hear them.  The great flocks of wild birds on wing overhead. Her eyes would dart heavenward to watch them fly over. She had long ago accepted that neither she nor her offspring would ever join any of those great flocks and that her dream of flying would never be realized, but dream about it…she still did.

It was there daydreaming on her empty nest one fine morning that the farmer found her. He grinned and showed her that his hat was filled with brown speckled eggs. “Henrietta, old girl, have I got a job for you!” the farmer exclaimed.  He then gently took the eggs out of his hat and placed them under his old trusty hen.

Of all of the hens in the coop he chosen her to hatch these strangely colored eggs for him. Henrietta heart swelled with emotion as her eyes filled with tears..the farmer still needed her.

Henrietta knew exactly what to do with a nest full of warm eggs and was as devoted to those orphaned eggs as she would have been to her own.  She kept them cozy and warm and made sure that she turned them with her feet on a regular basis so that they would not get any cold spots.  For over two weeks that old hen sat on those twelve brown speckled eggs.

Then, one morning she heard a tiny peep coming out from one of those eggs.  Jumping off the nest Henrietta watched as egg after egg started to crack and small fuzzy yellow and black creatures began to emerge.  Turning her head from side to side she checked out her new brood. These were the strangest looking chicks she had ever seen, but it did not matter to her a bit, because the farmer had given them especially to her!  She was their mother, they were her chicks and she thought them beautiful.

As soon as her babies were dry and fluffy and she had them jump out of the nest and follow her outside into the chicken yard.  Holding her head high, she led her new babies out to meet the rest of the flock.

It didn’t go well. The other chickens, being chickens, crowded together and began to cackle with alarm about Henrietta and her strange looking family.

Frightened fowl often make foul choices and these chickens were no exception to that rule.  They quickly decided that their precious small-beaked yellow chicks should have nothing to do with those odd looking creatures of Henrietta’s.  The other hens immediately resorted to malicious clucking and gathering of their babies under their wings to prevent them from even seeing, let alone associating, with birds that were obviously of a different feather.

The farmer heard the commotion in the chicken coop and knew right away what the ruckus was about.  Henrietta’s eggs had hatched!  He raced to see Henrietta’s new babies.  All twelve of the eggs he had entrusted to her had hatched.  What a picture greeted him!  A proud Henrietta strutting through the chicken yard with her twelve new ducklings in a straight line trailing behind her.

Now Henrietta did not know that her babies were ducklings, she just knew they were her babies, but the farmer knew.  The morning he had put the eggs in her nest, he had been in a field harvesting.  There in the bright green field had lain a dead mother duck.  A victim of a weasel attack. When the farmer had lifted the young lifeless mother duck off of the nest, she had lost her life defending, he had found the twelve eggs.

Quickly, the farmer checked the eggs to see if they were still warm.  They were!  At that moment, the he knew that he could make some good come from such bad. He gathered the eggs gently into his hat and raced for home.

The farmer knew that of all of the hens on his farm, it was Henrietta that he trusted to hatch those eggs and raise wild ducklings.  He knew her to be a very good mother, and about her secret wish to fly.

Many a time he had enjoyed watching her trying to fly or attempting to teach her chicks to fly.  As entertaining as her antics were to observe, he had no fear of Henrietta ever “flying the coop”.   First of all, the farmer knew, even if she did not, that big strong hens cannot fly.  He also knew from extensive chicken exposure and experience that there was no more loyal of a hen than old Henrietta.

Here is where the story begins to get a little crazy for Henrietta.  She knew very well how to raise chicks, but she did not know a thing about baby ducks.  She did not even know that her new babies were ducks. She just figured the eggs had belonged to a big round-nosed chicken with funny looking feet.

At first the ducklings behaved just like baby chicks.  They peeped a lot and stayed close to their mother as they ate bugs in the grass.  Everything was going swell until the day of the big summer storm.

This storm was a banger.  It was loud, windy and wet.  It was so windy and wet that the fence to the chicken yard blew down, and the road ditches near the coop had filled with water.

During the storm, Henrietta’s babies had been all tucked safely beneath her.  Her soft downy feathers kept them warm and dry.  For,  Henrietta knew how very important it was to keep young chicks dry.  They get very sick if they get wet. Then, too, loose, energized or deep water is perilous for chickens, because chickens cannot swim anymore than they can fly.

Henrietta saw nothing, but danger in the situation left behind by the storm.  Not only was the fence down, but worse and worse, the road ditch next to the downed fence was flooded to the brim.

As the mighty red rooster let out his ear-splitting universal barnyard chickens in danger of drowning warning, Henrietta sprang into action, but before she could corral any of her youngsters, all of her babies took perfect leave of their senses and made a dash for the deep water in the ditch.

Hysterical Hen.!

One right after the other of her babies jumped into what Henrietta knew would be certain death. She began to run around in circles frantically flapping her wings loudly cackling, “Bakk, bakk, bakk!”  The other chicken’s saw her misfortune and they too joined in the chorus of, “Bakk, bakk, bakk!”  Soon, the whole barnyard was in an uproar.

Henrietta stopped running in circles and covered both of her eyes with her wings.  She just couldn’t bear to look at her drowned dead baby chicks, but she knew she must!

Slowly she opened one eye and peaked out through her wing-tip feathers. To her amazement her chicks were swimming around having the best time of their lives.  Why a couple of them were even diving under the water.  She quickly regained her composure, smoothed down her ruffled feathers and proudly informed the rest of the flock that HER babies can swim!

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Every day from that day on the farmer let Henrietta and her babies roam loose on the farm.  They were no longer penned up with the other chickens.

Oh, the adventures they had.  They explored the dark woods and scratched the dirt with their feet for worms.  Henrietta taught them how to eat grain in the farmer’s fields and chase and catch bugs in the meadow. Each day ended with a swim for her babies in either the flooded ditch or the farm’s small pond.

Henrietta’s babies grew stronger day by day.  Soon, their downy fluff was gone and they were all feathered out.  They liked to test out their new feathers by fanning their tails and yes, flapping their wings.

Of course the flapping of wings had always been one of Henrietta’s great thrills.  Even at her ripe old age she still dreamed of learning to fly.  Many times the farmer would see her racing her babies across the barnyard.  Wings flapping and running as fast as her feet could go with all of her babies following her in hot pursuit.

Summer passed quickly, as it always does, and the leaves on the trees began to turn colors.  The weather had grown colder and Henrietta and her babies no longer roamed as far from the barnyard as they had during the long warm days of summer.

Darkness came early this time of year and with darkness came danger for farm chickens.  At night weasels came out and their favorite snack was fresh chicken.

Weasel

Every night the farmer would lock up all of his chickens, except Henrietta and her brood, inside the warm well lit hen house. Henrietta began to wonder if the farmer had either forgotten about or no longer cared about what happened to her or her babies.   So, Henrietta looked out for her family herself and found safe harbor at night inside the big barn with the cows.

It been a particularly lovely fall day and Henrietta and her ducklings had dallied too long down by the pond.  By the time they arrived back at the farm that evening they found  the doors to the barn were shut.

Well, now, this was trouble.  Henrietta knew how dangerous it was for a chicken to be alone out in the night unfarmer protected. Since, there was no way to get into the barn, she decided the safest place to sleep would be right next to the lighted hen house.

That is where the weasel found her.

She spotted the weasel slinking in the shadows silently slithering towards her and her babies.  Weasels are quick nasty little varmints that can easily outrun a chicken. Clearly her babies’ lives were in danger!

Henrietta’s only thought was to save her babies.

Henrietta quickly told them to…..RUN!

As she bravely faced death and the weasel, behind her she could hear the rush of air through her babies’ wings as they flapped them to increase their getaway speed as they ran.  Just like they had done so many times in play when Henrietta had raced across the barnyard with them chasing her as she pretended they could all fly.

After making sure her babies had escaped, Henrietta attacked the weasel with all her might! She ran at him as fast as she could go flailing her wings as hard as she could and ready to peck his eyes out, if given the chance, with her sharp beak.  She knew that there was every chance that the weasel would win and her life would be forfeit, but she was determined to go down fighting.

Just as the weasel was ready to pounce on Henrietta to finish her off, a large shadow passed over.  Then, she felt herself being lifted up into the air.

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Higher and higher she went.  She was flying! Her babies were flying! Chickens cannot fly?  It was then that she finally accepted that her babies were not swimming chickens at all…but were wild ducks.   As a flock, they had swooped down to save their beloved mother from the weasel and were flying her high up into the tree where she would be safe.

Henrietta’s babies had rescued her!

As she looked down from the tree, she saw the farmer standing below them grinning up at her.  At that moment Henrietta knew that her and her babies had never been left to wrangle with the weasel alone. The farmer had been watching out for them the entire time.  He had not forgotten about any of them…not for a moment, because farmers love their chickens and ducks!

At last, Henrietta understood why it was that the farmer had trusted her with those duck eggs. He had known all about her secret wish to fly.  He knew she would never be able to fly on her own, however he also knew that his faithful hen would never give up. He had counted on her and her dream of being able to fly to teach the orphaned wild ducklings to fly.  It was all of her wing flapping races with those ducklings across the barnyard over and over again that had strengthened their wings and enabled them to take flight.

Throughout the rest of her long and peaceful, flight-filled life, Henrietta never again felt unloved or unneeded.  She knew that was she was one very blessed, in a non-overly-busty way,  old hen.  For the very ducklings she had helped the farmer save, had saved her.  And, the wisdom of the farmer had saved them all.

Psalm 44:21 For he knows the secrets of the heart. 

Children’s Story: Wendell, the Ghost in the Attic

Yesterday, a friend and I spent the morning sorting through an old suit case that my cousin recently gave me that we found inside the old family homestead house.

It was amazing holding letters written by my great-grandparents…Ole and Christine and reading their children’s (my great aunt and uncles) school work that had been completed before World War I.  Unfortunately, the vast majority of the correspondence was written in Swedish, which to my great disappointment I never learned to read or speak.

My cousin recently helped me walk through the old homestead house for memories sake.  He also honored me by allowing me to be the custodian of the triangle-shaped flag given to my grandparent’s George and Esther Larson at their soldier boy’s funeral.

Since my visit to the farm, I have spent quite a bit of time reminiscing about the people who lived and loved there. Yes, that old, old house has seen its share of the joys of life…births, birthday parties, holiday celebrations, confirmations, weddings and “neighborhood and family doings.”  When I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked out into the dining room, living room and front parlor somehow the chairs did not seem quite empty and voices and laughter from the past, for that moment in time, returned.

Along with the joys of this world that old homestead has seen its share of sorrow. Wars, economic depression, severe drought and crop failures made their presence known to those farm folk.  It is not something people like to talk a lot about, but there were years when famine came and even farm families knew hunger.  Grandma Esther told about a summer during the dust bowl years when the only feed they had for their cows were the thistles that grew in the mud that used to be a lake.  She lamented about eating and feeding her children oatmeal three times a day.  Yet, for the rest of her long life routinely ate oatmeal, just because she liked it.

Then, too, there was the great sorrow of death’s visits when old and young ones were called home to eternity.  Such as, when our family’s two soldier boys so strong, smart and handsome were killed in action in Korea just months apart, and who now lie side by side in the family plot at old church cemetery.

This story is about one of those boys…my Uncle Wendall, who was the “Ghost in the Attic.”

Wendell, The Ghost in the Attic

My very first memory is of screaming for assistance in the night and staring at a light in the hall outside of my crib. I wanted out and apparently the rest of the world had gone deaf. Two things became clear at that moment; cribs are prisons, and prisons are not for me—I need freedom, and staring at lights made my eyes hurt.

I quickly dedicated my every waking effort to establishing a method to release me from physical limitations that surrounded me—I learned to climb out of that crib. This skill, learned so young, is of great benefit to any person born on a farm that housed a variety of animals kept in pens.

My bedroom was at the top of the wide oak staircase, on the second floor, at the east end of the big farm house built by my great grandpa Ole. Actually, both of my great-grandpa’s were named Ole. My family is Swedish, the whole entire lot of us, except my youngest sister who thinks she’s adopted—that’s what my brothers and I told her, so that makes it true.

Next to my room was my parent’s room. It was huge! Which annoyed me greatly because obviously there was plenty of room for me in there too, but, no, they had to hog the whole thing to themselves and poor little me was left to fend for myself.

The most important part about the location of my bedroom was that right above me was….the attic! Now this, unlike my brother is important, because that’s where Uncle Wendell’s ghost lived!

Uncle Wendell was a soldier who had died in a war and from all accounts was a very nice person. Then, too, that’s exactly what adult’s tell a kid about family ghosts so that you’re not so afraid to go to bed.

Wendell was a family ghost and family ghosts aren’t like other ghosts, because they want to be near you. They get lonesome. Sometimes you know they are there because you see their eyes move in the pictures by your grandma’s bed, or your nose tickles for no reason because they are thinking about you. But mostly you know they are there, because you can hear them at night…in the attic.

Wendell’s ghost lived in the part of the attic right above my bed, because it was where the window looked out towards grandma’s house and down the lane. I just knew that he liked to sit at the little brown table, wearing his uniform. To regular folks the uniform looked like it just was hung on a hangar by the window. But, I knew that uniform had a spell on it, because amidst all of the dead flies and dust that surrounded it, that uniform was always perfectly clean and wrinkle free.

That fact that Wendell’s suit was completely wrinkle free was in itself suspicious. On the farm not only did most of the clothes have wrinkles, but some of the animals and practically all of the people I knew were wrinkled. So why was this, the only item on the farm that was always neatly pressed? Suspicious to be sure! In my mind, it reassured the fact that there were unusual goings on in that house, and confirmed that we did indeed have a ghost living in our attic.

I believed that during the day my ghostly uncle liked to sit in the attic by the east window. From there he could see the green fields, blue-black woods, and grandma and grandpa’s little yellow house with the light gray roof. In season, he could watch the lilac’s bloom violet and smell the pink and white apple blossoms blooming in the orchard along the lane. Early in the spring, he would watch the corn being planted by his brothers. Soon there would be yellow-green shoots pushing through the rich blue-black top soil and he could almost feel the soft-cream colored downy corn tassels dancing on the mid-summer’s evening breezes. Autumn was golden, gold wheat, gold straw, gold soy beans and golden corn stalks that rustled and danced the cool crisp air.

His eyes could not have missed seeing his nephews and nieces playing hide and go seek in the orchard, having dirt clog fights in the fields, building forts in the lilac bushes and chasing run away livestock down the long gravel lane.

I was sure that Wendell never left his post by the window. For he had to stay there by the window to guard the triangle shaped flag the rested on the small oak table in front of the window—the flag that grandma said I was never to touch.

Grandma loved Wendell and told me many stories about how much fun he was and he was oh, so smart! She had a picture of him looking so very handsome in that wrinkle-free uniform, right by her bed. On her sofa was the navy-blue silk pillow with smooth shiny golden fringe that he’d sent her from a far away place called Korea.

No matter how many nice stories she’d tell me about him, I didn’t love Wendell, I didn’t even like him, because when grandma would go up into the attic to visit him, he made her cry. Nice people and nice ghosts do not make grandmas cry. Wendell was a ghost. He was in our attic. I knew it, and what was worse he knew, I knew it. I didn’t know how to get rid of a ghost, but I decided that he was not going to come out of that attic without a warning.

I always felt sorry for Wendell for being trapped in the attic, but he scared me just the same. It was his fault that I was afraid of the dark, for each night just as I crawled into bed –the noises began. It would start out with windows rattling, then the tap, tap, tap on the pipes. Then the wood moaned and cracked. The stairs were wood and it was him testing the stairs to see if he could sneak down. I would pull the covers up over my head and try to breath really quietly so he’d think I was asleep and leave me be. If ghosts can’t hear you, then they can’t get you, that’s why all the other kids in the family were safe but me.

I was the noisiest breather ever. During the day if I talked a lot, you didn’t notice the loud breathing so much, but at night my asthma gave me so much trouble breathing. No matter how hard I tried to hold my breath or breathe slowly, I was noisy.

It was common knowledge in Swede Grove Township, that ghosts steal and eat the noisy bothersome children. My older cousins Clyde and Bruce had told me so. They were much older, so they knew all about what ghosts do to little girls with big brown eyes, who they find wheezing in the night. First, they bite off each finger, starting with the pinky, and then they get the toes one by one so you can’t run away. That was enough bad news for me. At that point I knew that I was much more afraid of ghosts in the dark than death by pig and blindness by rooster during the day. I just had to get the trap done, so Wendall the ghost couldn’t get out of the attic and get me.

Being a farm kid who was around a lot of dangerous animals, including my older brother, I had plenty of experience developing early warning systems. I decided make a loud alarm that I could hear at night. A noisy alarm would alert everyone in the home of a pending ghost attack. Using material that would be readily available it seemed to me that the most prudent course would be to fill the stairwell with tin cans and glass bottles, then slam the door shut. Should Wendell the ghost try to open that attic door at night to cause mischief, the tin cans rolling down the stairs and glass bottles breaking would surely wake everyone up and scare him back up into the attic. A simple plan is a good plan, and I had already learned that when dealing with Swedes it’s best to keep it simple—including Swedish ghosts.

So the very next morning, I found a handy-dandy five-gallon pail and went prospecting for cans. This was not as easy of a task as you might imagine. The farm’s garbage pile was past the old red granary and the tool shed. Then you had to pass over a landing, travel right past the pig pens through a mud bog into the woods to get to the garbage pile.

The most challenging obstacle between me and safety from the likes of Wendell the ghost were the roosters—big Rhode Island Red roosters. Those big-cocky buggers were almost as tall as I was. It was a commonly accepted that those feathered fiends especially liked pecking out the eyes of little girls that left the porch by themselves without Grandpa George. Clyde and Bruce, my cousins, told me they’d seen it happen themselves. Well, if your older boy cousins loved you and were there to protect you so if they saw it, it must be true.

Now, Grandpa George was someone special. He was the tallest quietest fellow I’d ever seen, except for old man Peterson, who by the way was the only guy at church with one hand and the other a hook. I was told he wasn’t a pirate, but I knew better. It was fascinating watching him click that shiny silver hook onto the collection plate every Sunday. You had to just take a quick peek at his hook, as grandma considered it heathenish to notice or comment on such.

Grandpa was always calm, no matter what. That was his job…expressing the excitement of life was grandma’s responsibility.

Grandpa George always wore Osh Gosh bib overalls, a blue cotton shirt with the elbows mended with old white handkerchief material. He had brown leather work boots with the criss-cross laces up the front, and a big broad-brimmed yellow straw hat, that his white hair stuck out from underneath.

One of the things I liked best about grandpa was his old ticker. When he’d rock you, you could put your ear on the middle of his chest and hear his old ticker…tick, tock, tick, tock …just a ticking away. It really was his gold pocket watch, but he called it the old ticker The old ticker was magical, because no matter hard it was to breath when your were sick with asthma, all you had to do was listen to the old ticker and it would keep you safe while you took your nap and it guaranteed that you would wake up again. It always worked.

Anyway, back to building the ghost trap. I wasn’t about to let some rooster spoil my plans after all grandma, grandpa and my parents hadn’t raised me to be a coward. They were always telling me how brave I was when I had a difficult time breathing during asthma attacks. They said it took courage to get all of those shots for my asthma and not cry. So, I had no fear as I jumped off the long green porch on the south side of big white house determined to get those cans to keep the ghost in the attic.

I started out across the lawn and down the slope toward the barn and the granary. I went slowly being careful not to be seen by my mom, dad, grandma, Grandpa George or the roosters. Pigs didn’t concern me as much and they’d just kill me dead, but I didn’t want my eye’s pecked out, as that just looks so nasty and would give nightmares to other good little children, so I was afraid of the roosters.

My dog Mitzy, the German shepherd, came with me for protection. She understood the importance of the task at hand and was looking for the roosters too. My heart was pounding, partially from fear and excitement, but mostly I could never breathe because of the asthma. Mitzy and I crept past the barn, undetected, then, then we scooted across the barnyard to the granary. Yes, the coast was clear and Mitzy and I headed into the woods to fill the bucket with cans.

You can’t imagine the horror that me and that dog experienced when we got to the garbage pile. There right on top of the cans were the blasted roosters, scratching for worms. Well, we retreated some, to think over our options. We had burned a lot of daylight just getting there, and we’d be missed soon by Grandpa George. He was a slow mover, but tricky, he always seemed to be right where I was going instead of where I’d just been.

We decided that if we were brave enough to come this far, what’s a few chicken pecks. I pulled my cowgirl hat down low over my eyes for protection. Then, with bucket swinging wildly over my head—me and that dog rushed them roosters.

Dogs bark at fleeing chickens….

After I learned THAT lesson of the universe, Grandpa George took away my bucket and explained to me again that if I continued to glare at the dog like I was doing, my face would permanently freeze and I’d be a walking grotesque reminder to other busy little girls that they should listen to their grandpas. After another lecture on the perils of death by pig and blindness by rooster, we went hand and hand to get cookies from Grandma Esther. Who again explained, in great detail, in English and Swedish, how positively nasty death by pigs and blindness by rooster can be.

I took a nap on grandpa’s lap and awoke to find that grandma needed help to make more cookies for grandpa. Since only I could get the dough balls rolled to exactly the right size, I was stuck. It was during the cookie baking that I noticed that all of my artwork I had drawn for grandma so faithfully had gone missing from her refrigerator. Why, grandmother’s refrigerator was as barren as a twin heifer calf.

She explained to me that as soon as we cleared the table from the cookie baking, I had to draw her more pictures of horses. With a note of pity in her voice she explained how it had happened again. She just had to give them to the unmarried aunties in town. They were having another low spell and it lifted their spirits some and gave them a happy heart to get my pictures.

The aunties were without a darling of their own, didn’t I know. And, Jesus expected me share my drawing talents and be a blessing by supplying artwork for those two old bare-shouldered ladies who smelled like strong coffee and root cellars, and wore faded loose chiffon flapper dresses that had not been removed or cleaned since their teens with dirty embroidered hankies trapped between their shriveled bosoms that with a flick of a bony vein-protruding wrist could seek freedom without warning to vigorously wipe your face while you fervently prayed that those lengthy eighty-year-old breasts would refrain from greeting daylight within inches of your face.

As I sat there at grandma’s kitchen table focused on my Christian duty and drawing those pictures, I strongly suspected that I was deliberately being kept from the garbage pile. Well, there’s one rule I was born knowing and that is that there is no sense in deliberately offending God or grandma. I gave those drawings my best effort, besides grandpa let me sharpen my crayons with his real jack knife.

By the time I’d finished all the drawings that grandma needed, it was getting dark outside and grandpa walked me home to the big house for supper. Not only was supper was waiting for me, but so was Wendall the ghost. I knew that Wendall was there in the window watching pa walking me home. It was another scary night of waiting for an imminent ghost attack.

So the very next morning, I snuck out of the house again. To get out, I waited until mom was in the kitchen, then I went into the pantry and down the basement door, past the old wood stoves, said “good morning” to the black and orange salamanders on slimy green stone walls and out the coal shoot on the north side of the house. Then, I ran for the woods.

I had made it clear of the house, but Mitzy was following me. She was loyal, which is a worthy trait, but it had already been established that she was a chicken barker. I tried to lock Mitzy in the outhouse, but she made it clear she was also an outhouse barker, so we discussed the situation and decided to stick it out together. She looked like she’d sincerely try not to bark the roosters this time and sometimes you just have to trust someone. So off we went toward the junk the pile, in the dark woods past the granary together.

On the way there I took a quick break to pick and eat a few black raspberries that grew wild by the tall gas pumps. We used these gas pumps on our farm to fill the tractors with gas. These pumps stood on four legs and were about seven feet off of the ground with a big barrel on top. When, no one was around, I liked to climb up on top of them and pretend they were horses. I’d sit astride the barrel and dream I was a wild Indian. Free to race my pinto pony across the prairies at top speed.

It seemed to be a good morning for a wild ride and Mitzy was busy eating chicken poop. So, I climbed up on a gas pump and spent some time roaming the vast plains of the Wild West in search of buffalo and adventure.

Unfortunately, adventure I found, because, just when I was kicking my mount in the sides to go faster to catch the buffalo, grandpa walked right beneath my gas pump pony on his way to feed the baby chicks. I held my breath so he’d not hear me, because gas-pump riding was, as with most things, strictly prohibited by grandma. She felt it was dangerous. I don’t know how she found so many perils in everything. I guess she was just a natural born worrier.

Just when grandpa had passed by my seven-foot high pump-pony, and I was grinning at my cleverness at being undetected, he set his bucket of chicken feed down and without looking at me said, that I should be careful not to let grandma catch me up there again. Then, he left to feed the chicks. This is why I loved grandpa, he trusted four-year old girls to exercise their own good judgment.

After, I’d finished my imaginary western adventure. I climbed down and called for Mitzy. Luckily she was done eating chicken poop and grandpa had left his feed bucket by the granary door. At first, I thought it was one of his tricks, but no, good fortune had finally smiled on me. I grabbed the bucket and escaped into the woods to get the cans for the ghost trap.

This time I was able to get necessary cans and jars. I headed back to the big house. The best thing about living in the big house is that it had four different doors to go in. As the whole relation and neighborhood was Swedish, and we’re a trusting bunch of folks, the doors were never locked. The windows locked, doors always wide open.

I went in the big front hall door, because that door was only used when we had important company to impress—never was used. Also, that door was the closest to the great hall that lead directly to the upstairs and the attic door. I got in just fine and dumped my cans and bottles on attic stairs. It was then that I realized one bucket of cans would never be enough. So back, I went to the dark woods for another load, then another and another. Soon my trap was just grand; the stairway was filled with cans and bottles. I could hardly get the door to the attic shut with all of those cans in there. Should Wendall try to escape now, the racket would awake everyone and keep everyone, and especially me, safe from a ghost mangle.

I went to bed that night, expecting a good night sleep. No more worrying about the nightly noises coming from above my bed. And there weren’t any. My trap worked so well that for more that a week, not a peep did I hear from the ghost in the attic.

As it happens, country folks feel that getting together with neighbors is important and my mom and her lady friends had this club, a ladies club, and they’d meet once a month. They’d take turns meeting in someone’s home to play games that rhymed and made them giggle. There was always great concern about whether the napkins matched the tablecloth and they ate lots of fancy desserts that we kids and our dads could only taste after the ladies had gone home. Those gals really seemed to enjoy it!

It was my mom’s turn to be hostess to the club’s monthly meeting and our whole house was in an uproar in preparation for the doings. The rules had been clearly articulated…we kids weren’t to touch anything, make a mess, bring any type of animal into the house, or to make fun of any of the company. If any of these rules were violated there’d be a spanking. Yes, there was probably a spanking in my immediate future—as I was an excellent mimic.

Grandma had volunteered to help mom clean the whole big house, and it did look grand! Everything was ready for ladies and mom was getting her best dress on. Things were going so smoothly that grandpa was even taking a rest. He was just sitting on the back porch, with a couple of his chicken feed pails beside him, resting his head on a broom handle. He looked so peaceful; I decided to join him for a visit.

As a plopped down on the porch step next to him, he smiled at me and whispered quietly, “They keep the silver coffee pot in the attic, Trina.” I completely froze as the sound waves from the horrible racket of all those cans and bottles cascading down the attic steps onto grandma reached my ears. Then, grandma screamed “WHAT IN THE WORLD HAS GONE ON HERE!”

Grandpa pulled his old straw hat low over his eyes and whispered “protects me from the hen pecks” and winked at me. Then, he asked me if I thought two buckets would be enough. I sadly shook my head–no, we’d need more. Grandpa pointed at the two other buckets he’d stored under the porch for just such an emergency and together with our buckets we entered the house.

Mom came charging out of the bedroom, demanding what and who had broken into where and wailing that her club party would surely be ruined! Grandma was at the top of the stairs looking down on grandpa and me with her lips pursed tight and her hands on her hips. I knew at that moment; I was in big trouble, going to get a spanking, would cry in front of my cousins, and eventually would be eaten by Wendell the ghost.

Grandma’s eyes never left my face, but they narrowed just a bit, as she used her most calm no nonsense voice to explain to my mother that somehow some old boxes had been left on the attic stairs. The boxes were filled with old cans that someone must have been saving, and she had accidentally tipped over the boxes. Grandma promised we’d clean up the mess and clear out before the guests arrived so everything would be just fine.

When we reached the scene of the disaster, grandpa started to pick up the cans and put them into the pails. Then he stopped and asked me why I wasn’t helping him. I couldn’t lie to grandpa, so I told them how the cans were probably covered with ghost germs and that I was afraid of Wendell’s ghost in the attic. Grandma’s eyes narrowed as she very calmly asked me if I was afraid of the attic because Wendell’s things were there. Well, yes, I responded, I was, but more importantly I explained how ghosts attacked little girls with asthma and ate them in their sleep, I knew it was true, because the cousins had told me so. I, then, shared the gruesome details of death by ghost attack. I told her how I could hear him up in the attic at night and that I no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t breathe quietly and that’s how he’d find me and get me for sure. So I had made a ghost trap.

Without a word, grandma just sat down on the top of those stairs and stared at me for the longest while. Then, she pulled me onto her lap. She started out talking really fast in Swedish, but after she calmed down, as she usually did, she switched to English. Grandma explained Uncle Wendell. He wasn’t in the attic, because he wasn’t a ghost. He lived in heaven with Jesus and was and angel.

Wendell had been a wonderful young man who had loved his country, cherished freedom and wanted to pass that gift on to me. He had died in a war—far away from our farm. Wendell had not died afraid. He had a strong faith in God and knew that he had a home in heaven. He died defending other boys that were with him. She told me that she took good care of his uniform and the flag, because she missed him—not because of any ghost germs.

Uncle Wendell was never a ghost in the attic and I was never afraid of him again. How can anyone be afraid of someone who loves so greatly that without even knowing you would sacrificed their life to allow you to grow up safe and free. I will, however, always remember how he died and why. I will treasure the stories that were shared with me and keep him alive in my heart…by never forgetting his selflessness and unwavering love of God, family and country…. Wendell is my hero.

Good night, kids!

And, oh, by the way ghosts would never come down the stairs…because they can go right through the walls.

 

Thor’s Stories: Ghost Cat Trapping

Great Thor adventure on Halloween!

The Swedish Farmer's Daughter

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Following closely behind the Fourth of July with all of its bangs, pops and explosions, the next least favorite holiday on a dog’s calendar is…..Halloween.

Rex, Thor’s dog, always knew when Halloween was coming, because his boy, Thor, would put fake grave stones and bones all over the yard then forbid Rex from peeing on one or chewing on the other.

Next came the garden pumpkin harvest and massacre. Dogs always love garden pumpkins. After all, it is their favorite vegetable.  A pumpkin patch is a yard filled with big orange balls, because, a ball, is a ball, is a ball. And, since humans rarely eat them for food, pumpkins quickly become a dog’s favorite morning bathroom stop.

Rex was no exception to this rule.  Every morning before the sun could melt the frost on the pumpkin, Rex would engrave a design in the white ice crystals with his warm pee…

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Thor Stories: The Fence….Nothing Is Harder to Defeat Than Grandma and Minnesota Gophers

Thor was just finishing washing and wiping the breakfast dishes.  He didn’t mind doing this chore as he could look out of the kitchen window that was over the sink and survey his backyard….otherwise known as…the jungle.

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As he looked out the kitchen window he saw Rex, his trusty dog sniffing along the bottom of the backyard fence.  This fence was all that kept the jungle in and troublemakers at bay.  Why without the fence Ned the fainting goat would wander off and pass out only heaven knows where; there’s just no telling what kind of trouble Morton the Spitting Squirrel would cause for neighbors; and protecting the jungle from dinosaurs, rooster pirate kings, farting trolls, cat ghosts and mischief makers of all varieties and sizes would present an even greater challenge.  Yes, his backyard fence was just as essential as its big door that lets folks go safely in and out.

No sooner did he finish his sublime thoughts about the importance of the jungle’s fence, than heard Rex utter a loud yelp. Quick as a wink the whole dog disappeared under the fence in a “Pop”!

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Thor spun on his heels and ran to the calendar…sure enough it was strawberry picking season. That means that Gus the buck-toothed  gopher, along with his family and friends, had burrowed under the fence and let Rex loose as part of their plan to decimate the strawberry patch.

Thor knew that of all of the enemies that had caused mischief in the jungle none were harder to beat than Minnesota Gophers.  Saving his strawberries from the gophers would be a supreme challenge.  Especially, since Rex was now stuck on the other side of the fence, howling his heart out.

First things first, Thor opened up the front door of his house and hollered “Dog Treats.” Rex was there in a flash.  With his trusty canine friend by his side Thor quickly began to formulate a “Save The Strawberry” game plan.

Going one to one with a  Minnesota gopher is never good strategy.  Too exhausting and too easy to trip.  No, what was going to be required here was a very offensive team with an even more offensive gopher elimination plan.  Thor had no choice, he was going to have to call Grandpa Walter.

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Vicki Lawrence as Mama in Carol Burnett Show

Grandma answered Thor’s phone call.  Thor got out two words…gophers and strawberries.

The line went dead.

He was on his own.

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Bill Murray in the movie Caddy Shack

Thor had watched gopher fighting training movies and had learned that to catch a wily rodent you have to think like a wily rodent.

Morton.  Yes, Morton the spitting squirrel, Thor’s arch enemy was an expert at the obnoxious.  He would be just the ticket.

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Thor grabbed his protective eyeglasses, rain hat and coat, rubber boots and umbrella, opened the mighty gate in his fence and entered the jungle.

The vision that greeted his eyes was disturbing.  Gophers gnawing away on fresh strawberry after strawberry. Their buck teeth emitting non-stop chatter like the clicker of the telegraph operator on the Titanic.  Strawberries as doomed as the ship.

He had to find Morton!

Thor braced himself to be assailed with spit wads and slimey loogies only to discover that Morton had gone over to the dark side.  He was taking a nap on top of the chicken coop.  At times, squirrels can be worse than useless.

Rex and Thor raced back into the house to formulate another plan.  First, Thor went down into the basement to get a plastic bucket.  Then, he went into the kitchen to get a fork, Styrofoam plate, a jar of maraschino cherries, a strong rubber band and a towel.  Thor grabbed his favorite cat and headed for the jungle.

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By now the chickens were sounding the alarm, which made Rex began to howl again.  All of the noise distracted the gophers from their strawberry patch raid long enough for Thor to hook the wire handle of the pail into the fork, and fit the fork to the rubber band like an arrow against a bow string.  Thor pulled the rubber band as far as he could and let fly.

The bucket sailed through the air landing right in the middle of the patch. Since, everyone knows that a Minnesota gopher cannot resist getting a bucket, the gophers raced for the bucket excitingly dribbling all over the place.  Gus the biggest gopher was the center lead and got to the bucket first.   No sooner had he run into the  bucket and claimed it as his own than the cat pounced on top of the bucket trapping Gus.

With their leader rendered helpless, the other gophers forgot their game plan.  They  began running around completely disoriented as their dribbling increased two-fold. It was a foul scene. At that very moment the backyard gate crashed open with a bang as loud as a shot out of a cannon.

There stood Grandma!   Wrinkled stockings and knees sagging down to her ankles with a huge kettle in one hand and large metal spoon in the other.  She began to bang on the kettle with the spoon with all her might creating sound so loud it would make thunder blush.  Of course this woke up Morton the Squirrel who immediately began spitting at grandma.

The situation was quickly getting out of control.  Thor took out his rubber band and loaded it with a maraschino cherry.  He aimed carefully and just as Morton took another deep breath before he lobbed another spit loogie at grandma, Thor let the cherry fly.  Into Morton’s mouth it sailed and he swallowed it with a gulp.  The high levels of artificial red dye and sweetener from the Maraschino cherry put Morton into an immediate sugar coma and he fell fast asleep.

Thor threw grandma the clean towel so that she could rid herself of squirrel spit.

Then, he did the most cruel thing he had ever done to an animal in his life, because Thor knew that you cannot show any mercy to Minnesota gophers or they will beat you every time. He pulled out the Styrofoam plate and flashed the gophers with a non-recycleable item.  The horror! With the environment of the jungle supremely compromised, the dazed shrieking gophers cried foul for being so severely penalized for merely being off-sides and double dribbling. They quickly bolted for the fence to get out of bounds.

By now grandma had cleaned off all of the squirrel residue along with most of her makeup, and was walking towards the bucket being guarded by the cat.  Grandma tipped the bucket up and grabbed Gus.  She then benched him by the picnic table.

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Vicki Lawrence

She eyed him over as she said, “Well, what have we here? Looks to me like we have ourselves a strawberry thief. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Gus thought about it and then blurted out, “I did not take any strawberries.”  “You cannot prove that I did.”

Grandma’s eyes narrowed to a squint as she glared down at him over the rims of her bifocal glasses.  “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”  You have strawberry juice stains  around your mouth, your big buck teeth are as pink as a sunburned pig’s butt and your feet look like you’ve been line-dancing barefoot at a bloody vampire festival! Gus, you make bad choices. Do you know what we do to strawberry thieves in these parts?”

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Gus negatively shook his head as his pondered what his gruesome fate would be.

Grandma reached into the pocket of her apron.  At that moment, Thor’s heart sank as he realized the fate in store for the gopher.  “By golly, young fella, it’s time someone teaches you how to follow the rules.”  Then, out they came, a razor sharp pencil, a small notebook of paper, and a sheet of paper with writing on it.

It was a copy of Grandma’s rules for acceptable behavior.

Grandma believed that most things in life improve with practice. That includes rule following and writing.  Thor knew all of grandma’s rules by heart.  Whenever he was caught in a violation, you can be sure he would be found copying them 100 times.

“Gus in my opinion you could use some work on all of these rules, but numbers five and seven are the ones you really, really need to focus on. Oh, don’t think that you are going to take any short cuts or escape…I plan to sit right here to point out any omissions you  make.  As for escaping, well, I might be slow, Gus, but the dog, cat and chickens are not.”

Grandma’s Rules of Acceptable Behavior:

1.  Treat everyone just like you, yourself would like to be treated.
2.  Be respectful of your elders and others.  Always say please and thank you.
3.  Kindness like cleanliness pays.
4.  Be responsible and take responsibility.
5.  Always be honest with your words and actions.
6.  Don’t use bad words, unless you like the taste of soap.
7.  If it isn’t yours, it is not yours.
8.  When you want something, work for it.
9.   Don’t pick your nose.
10. Be thankful to God and count your blessings.
11. Never, ever, pull Grandpa Walter’s finger in grandma’s presence.

As Gus began his journey of human moral assimilation, Thor picked up the bucket.  While, grandma supervised the gopher’s character development, Thor filled the bucket with strawberries, then dumped bucket after bucket of the berries into grandma’s big kettle.

As Thor picked, grandma cleaned the berries.  By the time Gus was done learning right from wrong, the strawberry patch was empty.

Grandma carried Gus to the fence and tossed him over the side.  Everyone knows that Minnesota gophers know how to bounce.  No harm no foul.

No sooner had the rodent disappeared than Thor’s dad came home from work and walked into the jungle alongside Grandpa Walter.

Thor’s dad wondered why on such a bright sunny day and with the garden hose off that  his son was wearing rain gear and eye protection.  He then noticed that there was a squirrel sleeping on top of the chicken coop, a jar of Maraschino cherries had been left outside, a towel was hanging on the line covered with mascara stains and goo, his mother was there without makeup on, and there were sheets and sheets of paper with her rules for acceptable behavior copied on them floating around the yard like dry leaves in the fall.

Suspicious that his mother had his son spend the afternoon practicing writing skills Thor’s dad asked, “Son, what have you been doing today?” “Nothing much.” Thor responded.

Thor’s dad saw all of the picked cleaned strawberries and said, “Your mom has ice cream in the house for those.”

On the way into the house they all walked past Grandpa Walter. Grandpa Walter stuck out his finger and Thor’s dad pulled it.  As Grandpa Walter ripped a leg lifter fart that fluttered the fabric of the seat of his pants and sent Thor running, Grandma handed Thor’s dad her notebook, pencil and her list of “Rules for Acceptable Behavior.”

grandma angry
Vicki Lawrence

“Get copying son, and focus your attention specifically on Rule Number 11. It is just luck that a strong breeze prevented Grandpa’s wind from spoiling all of the strawberries and rendering us all blind and unconscious! For Pete’s sake, most of your garden is wilted and uprooted, and the ferocity of the release of all that hot anal air blew half of your fence over!  A methane emission of that magnitude could advance climate change by decades! There are reasons for rules!”

In grandma’s world, with the single exception of Grandpa Walter, no matter how old you are acceptable behavior is acceptable behavior whether human or beast.

Thor immensely enjoyed eating fresh strawberries and ice cream while watching his dad improve his penmanship.

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Children’s Story: On The Day I Was Born…Frost Killed All The Corn

I wrote this story for my daughter in 1996.  It is a silly farm parody of the Children’s book, “On the Day You Were Born”, by Debra Frasier.

My baby girl will turn 30 in a few weeks.  She is no longer the little girl, who asked her mother to write her stories with pictures, but a married woman with a Ph.D in Analytical Chemistry conducting post-doc bio-chemistry research on fertility with a National Institute of Health (NIH) grant.

They grow up fast! Your time is the greatest gift you will ever give your child or any child.

Time really does fly by…and according to this story so do fish.

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On the day I was born, frost killed all the corn.

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The cows in the barn, mooed in alarm.

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The cats in the hay, forgot how to play.

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The pigs in the shed, turned green and red.

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The cat saw this sight, and ran away in its fright.
Right past the dog, who had never seen a Christmas hog.

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“Something new is in the air!”, said the wise old purple hare.

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The pink chickens thought so too.
For, the horse was now aqua blue.

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The strong old bull was now very yellow.
Still, he was quite a handsome fellow.

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Outside, the ducks in the pond were as orange as the lawn,
and hopped on their heads which every duck dreads.

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Gladys the goose kept her goslings strictly in line.
Counting only six, but bragging there were nine.

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Now, grandpa looked up in obvious delight.
Granny had hitched up her skirt and was riding a bike.

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He shook his head, then shouted in fright. As, her front wheel hit a rock and she took off like a kite.

She soared through the air with the greatest of ease. And, landed in his lap as pretty as you please.

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The cousins ran wild chasing the hogs.
Uncle sat on the porch and howled at the dogs.

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Auntie came over with fish in her purse, leading a sheep she had dressed like a nurse.

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The farmer smiled this whole crazy day through.
The hare had been right there was something new.

For all of the things that had turned out wrong.
The farmer kept whistling his so happy song.

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Even, when the bananado gave the whole barnyard a twirl.  The day had been wonderful.

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He had a new baby girl!

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Emergency Barnyard Plan:
1.  Good music.
2. Cheerful faces.
3. Lots of fiber in diet.
4. He who runs first, gets a head start.
5. No jumping in circles.
6. Plant all trees root side down.
7. Panic never helps.

signed….B.G.G.  (Billy Goat Grant)

 

 

What Is On My Mind Today? My Two Published Books For Sale on Amazon

Golden the Goose was the first children’s story that I wrote for my daughter Aurora and the only one for sale on Amazon.  When Aurora was four years old, she announced that she needed a story about a golden goose.  I told her there already was a story about a golden goose. To which she replied with a dreamy look on her little face, “I want mine to be in love.

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So a goose love story was written by a young mother, fighting Thyroid cancer who knew that her little girl was too young to remember her, should her cancer battle go poorly.   I thought that writing and illustrating Aurora stories with a motherly moral message would be a great way to leave a legacy.

Golden the Goose’s message about domestic abuse…”being a princess in a palace is not worth the price, if you spend your own life with a king who is not nice.”

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Over the next several years “Golden the Goose” was followed by other children’s stories written by a young mother to her young daughter.   Such as:

Golden the Goose.  A goose love story

He Who Thinks Well and Runs Quickly.  Native American Anti-Bullying Story.

Aurora’s School Bus Rules.  This is exactly what she said…almost.

The Evil Lizard of Nid A story about conquering the mighty tantrum.

Chloe the Water Lily Fairy Princess The best way to get willy-nilly children and busy, bouncing baby bunnies to go to sleep at night is to read to them.

Going to Get the Calves.  A story about growing up on the farm.  I did illustrate this story, but used all of the originals in a book I made as a gift for grandchildren.

The Hen Who Wanted to Fly.  Dreams can come true.

Pete the Christmas Apple.   The Christmas Story about Jesus and Santa Claus is told from the viewpoint of an apple.

A Family’s Farm Christmas Is a inter-generational family portrait of tradition.

On Grandmother’s Knee I wanted my daughter to know her Great Grandmother Esther.

On the Day I Was Born, Frost Killed All The CornIs not on my blog, but has illustrations.   It is a silly farm parody of another Children’s book, “On The Day You Were Born.”  Instead, of wonderment, the day is filled with chaos, but ends with farmer marveling over his new baby girl.

And, then there was “Carina the Brave.”  Several years ago I re-wrote this story to personalized it for my three-year-old niece who was battling leukemia.  Laney did not win her cancer battle.  “Laney, The Brave”,  is about loyalty, family and conquering fear.

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https://www.amazon.com/More-Than-Dreamed-Commander-Chief/dp/B00ACPK2GA/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1523024124&sr=1-1&keywords=Patricia+Turgeon

The other book that I co-authored and published is a biography of Robert E. Hansen called “More Than I Ever Dreamed“.  This biography chronicles Bob’s childhood, military service during World War II, his tenure as Commander of the VFW during the Kennedy years and cold war and the Minnesota politics of his time.  Bob personally knew John F. Kennedy and most of the world’s post-World War II leaders, he lived and extraordinary life.

These books were sold through the Minnesota Historical Society, Minnesota Science Museum, Dakota County Historical Society and online.  They sold out rather quickly.

The prices being charged for the limited copies available of this book on Amazon are the very definition of optimism.  Interestingly, after working with Former Governor Tim Pawlenty on the World War II Memorial Dedication, Bob’s indicates in this book that he was no longer a fan.