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.

D. E. Larsen, DVM

My first learning experience after arriving in Sweet Home was how the schedule worked in the construction industry. The clinic was initially scheduled for completion in August of 1976. It was late August before it got started.

After leaving Enumclaw in July, I had six mouths to feed, if I included mine. It was evident that I would have to generate some income while I waited for the clinic to be completed.

The telephone started ringing even before my equipment and supplies arrived. Word of my presence in the small community spread fast. There had never been a veterinarian in Sweet Home before, and getting services from Lebanon or Albany was difficult.

As soon as I had some basic equipment, I started doing farm calls out of the back of our car. It was no time before a house call service for dogs and cats was in demand.

And that is when my second learning experience occurred. This learning experience was of a professional nature. I was the first veterinarian to practice in Sweet Home, and before my arrival, veterinary services were not convenient. One consequence of that was the poor vaccination status of the pet population.

Kirby was a walking ball of fluff. A twelve-week-old Shih Tau, he was Emma’s pride and joy. Emma had called for me to stop by to look at Kirby. He was doing okay, but he had a slight cough.

Emma was outside with Kirby when I pulled into her driveway. Kirby was playing on the lawn and did not seem bothered by a slight cough that would stop him momentarily.

“How long has Kirby been coughing?” I asked.

“I noticed it last night,” Emma said. “It wasn’t bad, but today it has been getting worse this afternoon.”

I did an exam on Kirby. His temperature was just slightly elevated, and his lung sounds were normal. I could induce a cough with the slightest pressure on his trachea.

“Is he eating?” I asked.

“Yes, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong with him except for the cough,” Emma said. “I felt a little odd calling you for what looks like such a minor thing.”

“When was his last vaccination?” I asked.

“He hasn’t had any vaccinations, Doctor Larsen,” Emma said. “We have never vaccinated our dogs before.”

“You should be vaccinating him pretty soon,” I said. “Canine distemper is rare, but they say it sneaks up on you.”

“What do you mean by rare, Doctor?” Emma asked.

“I have never seen a dog with distemper,” I said. “I don’t think I have ever talked with another veterinarian who has seen the disease. Of course, counting school, I have only been in this profession for six years. But, I would count that as rare.”

“But this is just a little cough, Doctor Larsen,” Emma said. 

“Distemper is a pan-tropic virus,” I said. “That means it attacks most of the systems in the body. It comes in stages, usually separated by days or weeks. The first stage is sometimes just a cough. Then, the second stage might be pneumonia or diarrhea and vomiting. The final stage is usually neurological, where the pup will seize, sometimes uncontrollably. Many pups this age will not survive the second or third stage. Dogs that survive the disease will usually have lasting neurological signs. That might be a twitch or seizures like epilepsy. It is not a good disease.”

“Maybe we should vaccinate Kirby now,” Emma said.

“That’s a thought, but I would rather put him on antibiotics for a few days first and see if we can get this cough under control,” I said. “And Emma, if this were to be distemper, vaccinating him now would not help with the course of the disease.”

So, I dispensed antibiotics and a cough suppressant for Kirby and sent him home with instructions to recheck him the first of the week. And like I would also learn, those recheck appointments are often not kept.

It was over two weeks later when Emma called. She was frantic on the phone.

“Kirby has been having seizures all morning, Doctor,” Emma cried into the phone. “What am I going to do. My husband wouldn’t let me have you come back to recheck him because of the expense. What should I do now.”

“It sounds like he may have canine distemper,” I said. “I could look at him and see if we can get the seizures under control. At his age, if this is distemper, his odds are not good. And Emma, if this is distemper, my recheck would not have changed things one bit.”

“I have you back,” Emma said. “Can I pick up some medication?”

I called Karl at Groves Drug Store and prescribed some phenobarbital for Kirby’s seizures. But I had little hope that it would be helpful under the circumstances.

Emma called the next day with news of Kirby passing. I was unsure from the conversation if Kirby died or if her husband put him out of his misery. Either way, it was a sad outcome for my first case of canine distemper.

Kirby was the first case in Sweet Home, but he was far from the last. I saw more cases of distemper than probably any veterinarian in the state.

It changed the way we conducted practice in Sweet Home. In my clinic, vaccinations were not elective. No elective procedures were performed in the clinic without the dog being current on vaccines. If they were not current, we would vaccinate them and wait for two weeks before admitting them to the clinic for their procedure.

We were the only local veterinarian with that requirement. Did it lose us a few clients? I am sure that it did. But I could sleep easy at night, knowing that it was the right thing to do.

The lack of convenient access to veterinary care played a significant role in Sweet Home’s canine distemper epidemic. However, a couple of years later, we were able to identify the source of many of the cases of distemper. The City run dog pound, was sending out unvaccinated dogs into the community, and many of those dogs would come down with distemper. 

With the help of the humane society, we got the City to clean up its facilities and change its policies. After five or six years of work, distemper in Sweet Home became the rare disease it should have been all along.

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