D. E. Larsen, DVM

I stood up and stretched my back after working a hoof.

“That was a chore,” I said. “At least it was just a sore foot.”

“Yes, I was worried that it was another broken leg,” Larry said.

“Ha, you have had your share of those things,” I said. “But things have worked out pretty well on both of those fractures.”

“Yes, the calf that you put a pin in his leg turned out great,” Larry said. “I even made some money on that deal.”

“That’s how things are supposed to work,” I said. 

“And the heifer that you put a splinted her fracture,” Larry said. “I was amazed that she did so well. She is still in my herd, and I still have that splint.”

“You still have that splint?” I said.

“Yes, just a moment. I will grab it,” Larry said as he headed into the barn.

Larry came out of the barn carrying a soiled but serviceable Thomas splint that we had the welding shop in town make over ten years earlier. It was made with tubular steel with a steel plate for the hoof.

I had sketched the design, and the shop had added a third support bar that ran from the center of the circular tubing, which fit around the leg at the armpit and supported the weight of the heifer. This third tube added significant support to the splint and works much better than the front and rear bars that were standard for dogs and cats.

“This looks really good, Larry,” I said. “You could use it again if the need arose.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Larry said. “I just hung it up in the barn. That heifer, an old cow now, is still in the herd. I’m glad you convinced me to save her. When I called you, I was just wanting to get your okay to make hamburger out of her.”

“This splint works well on fractures low on the leg,” I said. “below the elbow on the front leg and below the stifle on the rear leg. You also had a couple of pluses that helped with the decision. The heifer was not too large. She must have been under seven hundred pounds. And you had the facilities to keep her penned up in a small area in the barn.”

“I remember that it was a chore for a month or two,” Larry said. “And it surprised me a little at how well she did with this thing after a couple of days. She just acted like it was a part of her.

“If you remember, the hoof plate helped a lot when we put it on her,” I said. “That welding shop knew their stuff to be able to modify my sketch with the hoof plate and the third bar. With the hoof plate, we were able to wire the hoof to the plate sort of like putting on a shoe, only with wire instead of nails.”

“Yes, I remember you drilling holes in the plate and in the edges of her hoof,” Larry said. “It took me a few days to really believe that it was going to work. Not that I didn’t have confidence in you, Doc.”

“So many people just get the idea that there is no option for repair when a cow or calf breaks a leg, and they shoot them before they get a vet to look at them,” I said. “Sometimes there are no functional options for repair. But you have a couple of examples, Larry. This heifer and that calf, on which I pinned the leg several years after her. Both of those turned out well and they were cost-effective in the long run. Especially for the heifer. I would guess she has raised close to ten calves by now and probably has a few more in her.”

“She does a bang-up job with her calves, too,” Larry said. “Her calves always finish near the best of the herd. And I have several of her heifer calves in the herd now. You know, I think that mothering stuff is inherited as much as it is learned.”

“I think most research supports that opinion in the cow,” I said. “And observation also supports it in people, I think. There are great mothers out there, and unfortunately, there are always a few who just missed the boat when they were handing out mothering skills.”

“Anyway, Doc, this splint is just hanging here in the barn,” Larry said. “If anyone needs to use it, they are welcome to borrow it. If nothing more than to use it as a model to have a new one built.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Larry,” I said. “Hopefully, there will be someone around who still knows how to use it. That split will outlast both of us.”

“You’re right there,” Larry said. “Thanks for coming, Doc. And thanks for the memories.”

Photo Credit: Mohan Nannapaneni on Pexels.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It had been a long day of job hunting, and I was tired. I leaned back on the bar stool and took a sip from my beer glass.

“My job with the cable company isn’t going to work this year,” I said as Jim took a seat next to me. “I have been job hunting all day. Everyone would hire me, but not on a part-time basis.”

Jim ordered a beer and turned his attention to my dilemma. 

“You need to go down to Dorsey Bus Company and apply for a relief driver,” Jim said. “The only problem is you will need a chauffeur license. But they will hire you in a minute. I worked there for a couple of years; if you pressure them, they will give all the work you want.”

“I don’t need a lot,” I said. “With the GI Bill, all I need is enough for some spending money.”

“Go talk with them,” Jim said. “It will be perfect for you. Tell Paul I sent you. I left on good terms. My name might still mean something.”

After my beer, I cut the evening short. Jim had given me a good lead, and I needed some time to think about it.

The next morning, at about ten, I walked into the office of the Dorsey Bus Company and announced that I was there looking for a job. After I filled out an application, the receptionist ushered me into Paul’s office.

Paul glanced at me a couple of times as he looked over my application.

“This looks pretty good,” Paul said. “The problem is we have already filled our staffing needs.”

“I’m not looking for a full-time job,” I said. “Jim told me you were always looking for relief drivers. I go to school at OSU. I think my schedule would allow me to be available for relief most days in the afternoon and a couple of days in the mornings.”

“I remember Jim,” Paul said. “Let’s grab a bus and go for a drive.”

Paul picked up a set of keys as we headed out the back door toward the bus garage. I drove through a few back streets, and then we headed out of town. Paul had me stop in the middle of a steep hill.

When I restarted without a hitch, that was the end of the drive.

“That’s enough for me,” Paul said. “Leave your schedule with the front desk, along with your telephone number, and we will get on a relief list.”

That began a year of driving a school bus several days a week.

My first route proved exciting. It was a short morning route, all within the city limits. I had a good map and pickup times, so following the path was an easy chore. 

I was on the last leg of the route, with the bus mostly full of a well-behaved bunch of kids. A steep hill loomed ahead. I shifted down and gave the old bus a little gas. As we started up the hill, the kids went wild. Jumping up and down, hollering and screaming. I topped the hill and turned right for my last stop. Even the kids to be picked up were excited.

Finally, a young lady in the seat behind me leaned forward and spoke in a near whisper.

“The lady that usually drives this route never goes up that hill,” the young lady said. “She tried it the first of the year a couple of times, but she couldn’t get to the top. She goes around; it is about a six-block detour. This was a lot more fun.”

 When the old male drivers realized that I was driving relief, they were quick to request me for their relief. In fact, George went so far as to request my schedule of availability.

George was one of the most senior bus drivers and had two routes. One elementary route, out highway twenty, and then a high school route, out highway thirty-four.

My first relief for George was exciting. With a busload of first through third-grade students, I headed out of Highway 34 in heavy traffic. Just past the Children’s Farm Home, a fight broke out between a couple of students in the back of the bus. This was an absolute slugfest; I was surprised at the nature of the battle for such young kids.

I pulled over and stopped the bus. In a deep voice, I gently suggested that the boys stop the fight and take their seats. Then, I walked back to separate the two boys.

It turns out they were brothers, twins, in fact. They were likely well-practiced in fighting. I grabbed the one closest to me by the shoulder.

“You come up to the front of the bus and sit near me,” I said.

“Don’t tell Mom,” the young man said, more worried about the punishment waiting at home than any damage from the fight.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to tell anyone. You guys need to behave when you are on my bus.”

“This is George’s bus!” a little girl in the front seat said.

“When I’m driving, it is my bus,” I said. “And I’m not going to tell anyone about this little fight.”

I finished dropping off the elementary kids and returned to high school for the second leg of the route. The bus was packed when I left the school, and the kids were in good spirits. The noise level was high but not distracting. This route crossed the river on Highway 20.

The moon phase must have been just right because I hadn’t come to the first stop when two girls got into a fight.

These kids were older, and this called for my sergeant’s voice. I pulled the bus over and stopped. Standing up, my voice quieted the bus immediately. I worked my way back to the fight and separated the girls. 

When I sat the one girl down in an open seat close to the front of the bus, I noticed she had a handful of hair. I mean a handful, not just a few stray hairs. I checked on the other girl. She said she was okay.

When I got back to my seat, I couldn’t help but smile.

One of the boys behind me noticed the smile. 

“He’s laughing!” the boy shouted.

Any semblance of control was lost at that point, and the bus erupted in laughter.

When the girl with a handful of hair got off at her stop, she paused at the door and looked at me with tears in her eyes.

“Please don’t report this,” she said.

“I saw nothing,” I said.

The rest of the route was uneventful.

It was several days later when George stopped me in the bus garage.

“All the kids couldn’t wait to tell me about you,” George said. “Everyone liked the way you handled those problems. And I think it sounded pretty good. Any time I’m gone, I going to request you for the relief driver.”

I became busy following George’s endorsement to the extent that I had to cut out a day of availability. 

Paul was sorry to see me graduate. When I picked up my check at his house as I was leaving town, he expressed his regret at not having me around the following year.

Paul’s surname was the same as my grandmother’s maiden name. At the time, it didn’t mean anything to me. But later, when we started doing genealogy, I always wondered if we weren’t related in a way. I have never researched that connection.

Photo Credit: Mackenzie Ryder on Pexels

David E, Larsen, DVM

The flight to Boston was delayed. This was turning into a late-night affair. I looked around the waiting area and wondered if they were hoping for additional people. There were three of us GIs and one businessman. 

When final boarding was called, only the four of us boarded. Our arrival time in Boston was now scheduled for midnight. The only good thing was I had most of the plane to myself.
I settled into a seat near the front of economy class. I hope to get some sleep on this four-hour flight. We had one stop in Providence and then just a hop to Boston. 

Once we were in the air, I loosened my tie and jacket. We could fly at half price as long as we were in uniform. That was fine, but the dress greens were not designed for comfort.

I was close to a deep sleep when I felt a slight shake on my shoulder. I looked up into the pretty face of one of the flight attendants.

“Oh, I’m sorry to wake you up,” she said. “Since we only have you three soldiers on board, we are going to play cards in the back of the plane. Do you want to join us?”

How could I refuse such an offer?

“Cards,” I said. “What kind of cards are we playing? Strip poker or regular poker.”

“Arn’t you a funny one,” She said. “I think we are going to play hearts. It’s an easy game to learn if you haven’t played it before.”

“Sure, I’m game,” I said. “Maybe it will make the time go faster.”

I got up and started to retrieve my overnight bag from the rack above the seats.

“Don’t bother with that,” the attendant said. “We have a stop in Providence, but no new passengers are expected. My name is Sharon, by the way.”

So I followed Sharon to the rear. Sharon was beautiful. Short and petite, with nice curves and a suggestive walk.

We all squeezed in around a small bench, and Judy started dealing out the cards. I was careful to sit next to Sharon, even though I knew it would be to no avail.

“Are any of you guys headed to Vietnam?” Charlotte asked.
I waited for the other two guys to respond. Their sleeves were blank. I assumed they were privates heading to a training assignment.

“We are flying east,” I said. “Vietnam is the other direction. But talk to us next year, and it might be a different story.”

We played hearts. I didn’t follow the game and was more interested in Sharon. But the time flew. Every twenty or thirty minutes, one of the girls would check on the businessman sitting in the front of the plane.

The conversation was just chit-chat. Something I was not very good at. Judy put up the cards as we approached Providence, and everyone returned to our seats. The fantasies were over, and Boston loomed shortly.

At Boston, we taxied up to an open gate. Exiting the plane into the open air of the Northeast in December was a shock. It was cold, very cold. My lungs hurt when I took a deep breath. My nose and ears were instantly stinging from the cold. I hurried and almost ran to the terminal door. Any thoughts of Sharon were gone.

I retrieved my duffle bag from the baggage carousel and headed for a taxi. Finally, when I settled into the cab’s back seat, I started to warm up. The driver had his heater going full blast.

At the bus station, the ticket clerk chuckled at my question about when the next bus was leaving for Fort Devens.

“I can sell you a ticket tonight, but the next bus isn’t until ten in the morning,” the clerk said. “You can get a cheap room at the hotel next door. They save some rooms for you GIs. They also serve a pretty good breakfast.”

I took the clerk’s advice and made the short walk to the hotel as fast as possible. After checking in, I had the hotel give me a wake-up call at eight in the morning. I wished I had slept on the plane rather than getting excited about a card game with the girls.

Once I arrived at Fort Devens, I took stock of my clothes. My uniform was okay. My civilian clothes fit the Oregon climate fine, but I was not prepared for this cold weather in Massachusetts.

I had one hundred seven dollars left from my travel pay. On my first chance, I caught a base bus to downtown Ayer, which was not much larger than Myrtle Point.

I found the leather jacket in the only Men’s Store in town. Its price tag read one hundred twelve dollars. I tried it on, and it fit perfectly.

The clerk was anxious to sell it.

“The only problem is I only have a hundred and seven dollars,” I said.

“That’s close enough,” the clerk said. “We like doing business with you boys.”

I handed him the money.

“Do you want me to put it in a box for you?” the clerk asked.

“You have to be kidding,” I said. “I need to wear this jacket.”

So, in December of 1965, I owned the leather jacket. This jacket served me well for the remainder of the Massachusetts winter. When I went to Korea, we couldn’t take civilian clothes, so the jacket stayed home. It did go to Germany with me and again served me well.

I wore this jacket for many years after my time in the Army. It fit me well until time caught up with my belly. For the last decade or two, it has hung in the closet.

Stephanie, my son’s wife, looked at it the other day. We were downsizing.

“I bought that jacket in 1965,” I said. 

“Really, it looks almost new,” Stephanie said. “I think Anya would love it.”
“I’m not sure it will fit her, but she can have it,” I said. “It has followed me halfway around the world. Not to Korea, but to Germany.”

So, after sixty years, the jacket has a new life. It will last another sixty years with little problem. 

A good hundred-dollar investment.