The Nineteenth Hole

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Preface: 

This year of 2022 is seeing continued violence on many fronts. We watch the evening news, and there are daily shootings in Portland. The city crumbles under incompetent leadership. The political divide in this country seems to prevent many people from crossing party lines at the voting booth to effect change, much-needed change. 

And now, another horrific school shooting. There is outrage, and there was cowardice on the part of those responsible for protecting us, the people. The anger is being directed against the gun. So the politicians will pass a bunch of laws. Most of those will have little or no impact on future events, but the politicians will be able to pat themselves on the back and declare that they did something. 

And they and we continue to ignore the elephant in the room. We ignore the fact that society is sick. Some individuals pass through our system in great need of help, and the system fails to recognize their plight. 

Is it the drug culture? Is it the fatherless home? Is it grandparents raising grandchildren when they failed in the upbringing of their children? Who knows the answer? And in this divided society, this woke society, those questions can’t even be addressed.

But that was not always the case, and the nineteenth hole was not just for drinking beer.

***

My ball was perched on the closely mowed grass of the fairway. That, in itself, was unusual. My drive had been almost perfect for the eighteenth hole on Pineway. It ended up just beyond the one-fifty bush and on the left side of the fairway. I pulled my eight-iron from my bag.

“You amaze me sometimes, Larsen,” Mike said as he watched me address my ball. “I couldn’t begin to reach that elevated green from here with an eight iron.”

“You know me, I haven’t got there yet,” I said. “This ball could end up anywhere. But this is the most consistent club in my bag, and if I hit it well, you and Gil will be buying the beer.”

I positioned the clubhead behind and ball and gripped the club, first tight, and then I loosened my grip. I could feel the perspiration on my hands.

I stepped away and wiped my hands on the towel hanging from my bag.

“Are you sweating from the sun or from nerves? Mike asked.

“It has been a hot afternoon,” I said. “I was just thinking of sitting on the veranda with that beer you will buy.”

I addressed the ball again. I looked down at the alignment of my stance and my club. My hands and arms were tanned to a deep brown, attesting to the hot summer this year.

I swung hard, the ball bounced on the green, and it climbed up the hill behind the green. It came to rest for a brief moment. I held my breath. It would be a difficult chip from there. Then the ball rolled back down the hill onto the green.

“That happens to you enough that it can’t be all luck,” Mike said. “But you will still need to make the putt to get that beer.”

When we all got up to the green, the match was all but decided before any putts were made. Jim’s ball was close to the pin, almost close enough for him to be given the putt, and I was close also. Gil was off the green with a difficult chip, and Mike had a long putt.

Jim was given his putt, and the match was settled. Gil and Mike paid up as we walked to the cars to put up our clubs. The few dollars that changed hands were a token expense. And the protocol dictated that winners buy the beer. When it was all over, money-wise, you were better off being on the losing side.

We picked up our beer as we passed through the bar and took our seats around the open table on the veranda. I sat back and enjoyed the slight breeze.

“Did you guys read where a guy shot a couple of guys at the campground up by Mountain House?” Gil said.

“Apparently, he was a crazy guy,” I said. “I think had converted derelict camper van has been around town for several weeks.”

“That is getting a little scary,” Jim said. “When you can’t go to a campground and feel safe unless you carry a gun.”

“I don’t even own a handgun,” Gil said. “But I have been thinking that it would be a good investment.”

“Do you have a handgun, Dave?” Jim asked.

“Yes, I have one,” I said. “I bought it when I first came to town, just to have in case I needed it to shoot a horse or something. I don’t like the things. After graduating from high school, I bought a twenty-two Ruger automatic pistol. My dad said you will just shoot yourself in the foot with it. And I almost did, so I sold that thing.”

“I would guess that you would be hesitant to shoot somebody if you were in a situation,” Gil said.

“I crossed those bridges in my mind many years ago, Gil,” I said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if I had to. And the guy wouldn’t be telling any stories afterward.”

“It would make me nervous about having one in the house,” Jim said.

“Well, I figure it’s better than being pinned down and throwing rocks at the guy with a gun,” I said. “Besides, I don’t throw any straighter than I hit the golf ball.”

“What about you, Mike? Do you have a handgun?” Jim asked.

“Yes, I have one,” Mike said. “We carry it when we travel, especially if we are going to Portland. My thinking goes right along with Dave’s. And I don’t throw rocks very well either.”

“Once, when the kids were little, we went on a backpacking trip into Donaca Lake,” I said. “We bumped into a kid who hiked with us a way. He was a good-looking kid, but I kept him in front of me, and I felt much better with the pistol on my hip. You just never know; Ted Bundy was a good-looking kid, too.”

“That makes a lot of sense to me,” Jim said. “I guess I agree with everything you say. Around here, you would be waiting a couple of hours for the cavalry to arrive if you called for help.”

“Well, I have to run,” I said. “Now that we have everybody armed, maybe we can solve the abortion issue next week.”

“Ha! That’s a good one,” Jim said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I would never have one myself,” I said. “But it is sort of a fact of life these days. And all hell would break loose if that was changed.”

“That’s a point never discussed much,” Mike said. “Just what kind of response would there be if the anti-abortion side ever won out?”

“Next week, guys, I have to run,” I said as I took the last swallow from my glass.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.

Hallowed Ground, Prefaced, From the Archives

Preface

  I have posted this story before on this blog, but it is the most fitting story I have for a Memorial Day post. It speaks to the tremendous sacrifice suffered from a small group of farm families living along the banks of Catching Creek, a small tributary to the Coquille River.

I grew up in Oregon’s Coquille River Valley in the 1940s and 1950s. After a stretch in the US Army from 1965 to 1969, I returned to school and graduated from Colorado State University School of Veterinary Medicine in 1975. I practiced in the foothills of the Oregon Cascade Mountains for 40 years.

The loss of my close childhood friend, Don Miller, was the driving force for my return to school following my tour in the US Army.

             Dave Larsen

Hallowed Ground

D. E. Larsen, DVM

  We hurried across the cow bridge at the upper end of Uncle Dutch’s farm. We were in a hurry because we planned to hunt up to the Bartlett farm this afternoon. This would require us to cross Catching Creek one more time, and that crossing would have no bridge. Don Miller and I were in the fall of our 8th-grade year. Living on neighboring farms out of Myrtle Point, we hunted ducks and anything else along the creek as often as we could.

  Don was a little smaller than I, but we were both stout young men and growing as we hurried along. I had on pair of hand-me-down hip boots. Don was in tennis shoes. That meant that I would have to carry Don across the creek piggyback. 

 As we rushed across the field toward Bartlett’s lower ground, a ruffed grouse sprang from the creek bank. We generally collected several wood ducks on these evening hunts. Occasionally, we would run into a flock of mallards. If we were lucky, a China rooster would cross our path. But this grouse was an unexpected surprise, and he was quickly dispatched.

  We had been hunting the creek for a couple of seasons now, and we were crack shots with our shotguns. We knew every riffle in the stream, and we knew where we could expect ducks. Most of the time, we didn’t have enough time to get this far up the creek. We would have to hurry to get back to our fields to shot ducks as they came back down the creek heading to roost in the swamp near town.

  When we came to the creek crossing, I pulled my boots up, and Don jumped on my back. With Don holding both shotguns, we crossed the creek with no problems. We had worried about this ford when we were planning to hunt higher in the creek. We hunted along the creek in Bartlett’s lower field, jumping a group of mallards. Don and I both added a large mallard drake to our bag. This was a great addition to our typical hunt.

  As we headed back down the creek, I stumbled while carrying Don across the ford. We came close to ending up in the water. I did recover my balance and ran the last few steps to the far bank. We sat and rested and laughed at the near disaster. We knew it would have made the trip down the creek a chilly walk.

  We had about a mile to go. We didn’t need to follow the creek going down. We had jumped all the ducks on the way up the creek. We just wanted to get to our field at the base of the Cowhorn (our field was named for its shape, the Cowhorn on our side of the creek, and Horseshoe Bend on Uncle Dutch’s side). The ducks flying down the creek in the evening would cross this field every evening. We seldom hit a duck here. They were high and flying fast, but it gave us a lot of fun shooting, and just maybe we would get one.

  As we reached the field, we had to follow the creek a short distance to reach our shooting area. We both stopped at the same time. There were riffles, many of them, in a quiet area of the creek. This had to mean a whole flock of ducks. We spread apart, crouched a little, and snuck along the creek bank. Expecting to see the sky fill with ducks, we burst into an open grassy area of the bank, guns at the ready.

  There were no ducks. A cow was floundering in the water. She seemed unable to recover her footing and was struggling to keep her head above water. I laid my shotgun and game bag down, pulled up my boots, and entered the creek to hold her head.

  “Don, run over to Lundy’s and call Dad,” I shouted to Don.

  He dropped his gear and took off like a shot. 

  The cow settled down a little with me holding her head. It was going to be 20 or maybe 30 minutes before anybody got here. I was glad I had my hip boots.

  The first to arrive was Vern Lundy and Don. They drove in Vern’s old pickup. Dad was on his way with the tractor, an old Ferguson, a small but function tractor. Next to arrive was Uncle Dutch and Grandpa. They stopped and tended the gate while Dad drove the tractor through the gate and up to the creek bank.

  Dad came into the water with me, standing on the other side of the cows head. He had a large cotton tow-rope.

  “We are going to tie this around her neck and pull her out with the tractor,” he said.

 “Won’t that break her neck?” I asked.

  “Not if we do it right, now you watch. We are going to tie a bowline with the knot placed under her chin. The rope will be tight against the back of her head,” he said as demonstrated the knot and the placement of the rope. 

  When he was done, he looked at me and said, “Savvy?”

  “Savvy!” I replied

  “Now you do it,” he said as he undid his knot and handed me the rope.

  With little problem, I wrapped the rope and around her neck, pulled it tight against the back of her head and ears, and tied a bowline that fit under her chin.

  “Good,” Dad said, “Now, hold her head until I start pulling her, then you move out of the way, so you are not in the bite of the rope in case it breaks or something.”

  With the rope secured to the tractor, Dad started pulling the cow, I moved away, and the tractor pulled the cow up the grassy bank and up to a level spot in the field. The men were quick to untie her and help position her half sitting up. I waded to shore, still thankful that I was dry. 

  “The vet is on his way, he should be here before too long,” Grandpa said.

  “I have to get heading for home, or it will be dark by the time I get there,” Don said as he picked up his shotgun and ducks.

  I watched as Don started across the Cowhorn, headed for Felcher Lane, that would lead him to his house. We both knew that we hunted and fished on hallowed ground. Less than 20 years before, this same ground was covered by Phil Bartlett, who was lost when he crashed his Navy fighter plane into a mountain on a night mission in the Pacific. Stan Felsher also covered this same ground, he died in the Batan Death March. Bayoneted by a Japanese soldier while on a detail to gather firewood. Bob Lundy was decorated for his service on a flight crew in the Pacific, and my Uncle Ernie was a bomber pilot. I had several cousins who fought in Korea, a couple of them in the thick of things. 

  What we did not know was that Don had but 7 years left to live. He would be killed by a 50 caliber round in a friendly fire misadventure in Vietnam. I received that news in a letter from Mom while I was stationed in Korea. This was, indeed, hallowed ground. A tremendous sacrifice of young men from such a small area of close-knit farm families.

  Dr. Haug, the veterinarian, arrived shortly. He hurried through a quick exam and started an IV, I guessed he probably had dinner waiting. When Dad asked him what he thought about the cow being in the creek, he was pretty brief. “The creek just got in her way as she was going down, this cow has milk fever,” he said.

  Dr. Haug finished the second bottle and put his stuff away. Slapping the cow on her back, she was quick to right herself and get to her feet. Everybody was relieved.

  “It probably would be a good idea to put her in the barn tonight, that will help her warm-up. It is unlikely that she will go down again, but if she does, there won’t be any duck hunters to find her tonight,” Dr. Haug said, glancing at me with a smile.

  Dad and Uncle Dutch started the cow toward the barn, I knew I would be expected to finish the job. I picked up my shotgun and game bag, and as I passed Dr. Haug, I asked, “Which do you want, the mallard drake or the ruffed grouse.”

  He was quick to take the grouse, smiled, and said, “Thanks,” as he got into his truck and headed to the gate. I hurried to catch up to the cow.

Epilogue:

Stan Felsher:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/56788026/stanley-r_-felsher/photo

Phil Bartlett:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/115949598/phillip-f-bartlett

Don Miller:

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/103386505/donald-gene-miller

http://thewall-usa.com/info.asp?recid=35282

The Budget Book

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

Some life lessons are quickly learned, others not so much. And then, some lessons come by surprise and are entirely unexpected.

When I started veterinary school, I still had a couple of years left on the GI Bill and several thousand dollars still in the bank from my Army savings. I figured that we could manage the first two years of vet school if we budgeted ourselves carefully and if I could work when I had the time.

When we moved to Fort Collins, Aggie Village, the school’s married student housing complex, was full. We had to rent another apartment for the fall quarter. Not just an apartment, but some basic furniture also. We had sold all our furniture before moving to Colorado and moved with just a U-Haul trailer.

Married student housing provides furnished apartments for a very reasonable rent. Our fall apartment cost a little more, plus we had the added rent expense for the furniture. We were dipping into the savings sooner than we expected.

A budget book caught my eye on one of our first trips to K-Mart to pick up a few household items.

“This is just what we need,” I said as I thumbed through the book.

Sandy glanced at it around my shoulder but did not respond. I tossed the thin book into the shopping cart.

As soon as we got back to the apartment, I grabbed the budget book and the checkbook and started filling in the accounts and distributing our meager resources into the various accounts.

“You can’t fill that out accurately this fall,” Sandy said with a slight frown on her face. “Our living expenses will be a lot higher than when we move into Aggie Village.”

“I will fill in the rental expenses as if we were in Aggie Village,” I said. “The extra money for this fall will just have to come out of the savings account.”

Sandy just left me at the table with the budget book and got Brenda ready for bed. She didn’t seem too enthused about my new budget book.

“We really don’t know what groceries will cost us around here,” Sandy said as she came back to the table. “It will take me a couple of months to find the best stores and the best deals.”

“This is just a starting point,” I said. “It will give us an idea when expenses are coming and make sure we don’t make any extravagant purchases. I have my tuition and books expenses listed, and this fall, I think my final check from the cable company will cover that expense. If I can work over Christmas and spring break, I should be able to come close to covering the tuition expenses.”

Sandy made an audible sigh and headed to the kitchen.

I worked late, making sure I had everything entered. I have registration tomorrow, and then classes start the next day. I might not have time for this later.

Sandy finally came back to the table.

“You better get ready for bed,” she said. “You might have a busy day tomorrow.”

“My guess is there will not be much to the registration process,” I said. “There is no selection of classes this fall. We will all be in one big group.”

But we went to bed with a little nudge on Sandy’s part.

***

I was up and out the door early in the morning. Registration was in the old gymnasium, and it looked like a zoo when I entered. When I finally found the veterinary school table, they handed me a packet, I gave them a check, and that was that. Everything was preordained.

“That was easy,” I said to Tom, a fellow freshman I would soon learn was also from Oregon. “I will probably be home before Sandy is dressed.”

Sandy was a little surprised when I came home so soon.

“That must not have taken very long,” she said.

“I just showed my school ID. They handed me a packet, and I handed them their check,” I said. “Pretty simple. After lunch, we can go to the bookstore in the vet school and pick up my books. Then we have the rest of the afternoon off. Maybe we should eat dinner in the park.”

“That sounds fun,” Sandy said. “I talked to the neighbor lady in the apartment above us, and she said we should enjoy this fall weather, and she said you never know when winter will come.”

“Where did you put that budget book?” I asked. “I have a little time, and I can finish it before lunch.”

“I put it over in my stuff,” Sandy said.

That was a simple statement. Said with little emotion but with a hint of finality. That marked the end of my writing in her book.

In the weeks, months, and years that followed, Sandy kept meticulous records of where every dollar went. But there was never any planning on how much we would spend on anything. 

We did avoid any purchases that were out of our financial reach. When we moved into Aggie Village, there was a hookup for a washing machine in the apartment, and that was our first purchase. That way, we only had to use the community dryers. 

Next, we purchased small colored TV made by Motorola. I think the screen was like 17 inches. It was fine except for the high voltage power supply tube. My Army electronic maintenance skills bailed us out there. It was a straightforward diagnosis and fix. I was horrified when I first opened the back panel. Having worked on some of the most sophisticated equipment in the world, I was not prepared for the consumer electronics of a cheap TV.

We had room in the apartment for an upright freezer, and once that was installed, my folks shipped us some beef to help fill it. 

Then we started planning to purchase a small calculator. This was new technology. These small handheld little four-function calculators were expensive at the time. Their cost was out of our reach, and we could not justify spending nearly a quarter’s tuition bill for a little calculator.

Then, on Sunday morning, Sandy handed me the newspaper as I finished breakfast.

“Look at this deal,” she said.

There was a special price on a calculator. It was made by a subsidiary of Texas Instruments and was on sale for sixty-seven dollars. This was the first time these new small calculators were offered for less than a hundred dollars.

“Can we afford that?” I asked the gal with the budget book.

“I have been setting a little aside every month,” Sandy said. “I have most of the money. This is the cheapest we have seen, and I think we should get it.”

“That is still a lot of money,” I said.

“I just can’t keep up with all this bookkeeping doing all the addition and subtraction on paper,” Sandy said.

So we went to the store and made the purchase. It was great, handheld. Just hit a few buttons, and it would add a string of numbers with no problem. Sandy was pleased.

We had this calculator for nearly two weeks when Sandy opened the newspaper to the K-Mart ad.

“Oh! Now that makes me mad,” She said as she almost threw the paper at me.

There, right in the middle of the full-page ad, was a handheld, four-function calculator on sale for nine dollars and ninety-seven cents. We had just been fleeced for some fifty-seven dollars.

We, or I, learned several lessons. One, Sandy was the one that was going to keep track of our money, period. And two, stores tend to dump products with a sale when they know a competitor is about to undercut their pricing. So don’t be so quick to jump at a deal.