D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was one of those bright spring days in Western Oregon. I left my chemistry class a few minutes early. Southwestern Community College was housed in old military buildings at the North Bend airport in 1965.

If I hurried, I could get to Myrtle Point and punch the time clock at the Safeway cheese factory thirty-seven minutes after two. That way, I would get paid from two-thirty.

Traffic through Coos Bay always seemed to slow me down a bit, but when I hit the edge of town, I pushed on the accelerator of my Corvair and made up some of that lost time. 

Everything was going well, and I was on track to make my time when I approached the two-lane section of the highway. Then I noticed the state cop with his lights flashing coming up behind me. Where was he hidden?

I stopped and pulled to the side of the road, and the state policeman put on his hat and got out of his car. I got out of the car and retrieved my driver’s license from my wallet.

“Do you have oversized tires on this car?” the state cop asked.

“No, everything is standard,” I replied.

“Do you know what the speed limit is on this highway?” the policeman asked.

“Yes, I know it is fifty-five miles per hour,” I said. “And I know I was going a little fast. However, I attend school at SWOCC, and I work at the cheese factory in Myrtle Point. After class, if I leave a couple of minutes early and hurry, I can punch the time clock to get paid from two-thirty. That extra fifteen minutes each day adds up to over an extra hour every week. When I am paying for school, that means a lot.”

I could tell from his expression that he thought I was telling a big story, so I continued.

“You can see my work clothes and lunch bucket in the back seat,” I said, pointing out my neatly folded white pants and T-shirt nestled in the rear seat beside a large gray lunch bucket. “My school books are back there, too.”

The cop looked in the back seat and then sized me up again.

“Okay, you convinced me,” he said. “But an extra hour each week doesn’t mean much if you’re in a wreck. So, you need to slow things down. Maybe leave class a couple of minutes early.”

“You are probably right,” I said. “I knew I was pushing it today.”

“I patrol this section of the highway often,” the state policeman said. “And I have a good memory. I am going to let you off this time. But if there is another time, you will get a ticket.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said as I got back into the car. Looking at my watch, I saw the half-hour was gone, but I could still catch the forty-five-minute mark if I hurried. But I pulled back onto the highway slowly and watched the cop make a U-turn and head back toward Coos Bay. When I rounded the first corner, I pushed on the gas pedal again.

I parked in front of the cheese factory and rushed in to clock in right on the number two fifty-two. Then, I stopped at the office to talk with Art Henry, the manager. 

“Mister Henry, I was wondering if I would be able to work full time this spring if I dropped out of school?” I asked.

“Sure, Dave, we will be busy enough to give you full-time status,” Art said. “But why are you going to drop out of school?”

“It’s only for the spring,” I said. “I just got my acceptance letter for Oregon State for next fall. I want to make sure I have enough money for the full year.’

“Okay, that sounds good,” Art said.

So it was set. I would drop out of school and work full-time for the spring and summer. That would provide enough money for the next two years if I worked the following summer as well.

When the Winter Quarter ended, I dropped out of school. 

My plan was well thought out, except for the draft deferment that went along with college enrollment. The military was in the process of building up their numbers for the Vietnam conflict. A few weeks after I dropped out of school, I got my greetings letter from the draft board.

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There were about eighteen of us standing in front of the Coos Bay Post Office, waiting for the Greyhound Bus to take us to Portland for our induction physical. We stood there, a bunch of strangers, each lost in their own thoughts.

As the bus rounded the corner, the draft board member came out the post office doors, almost as if it were a timed event. The lead lady, whom I assumed to be the chairman of the board, was carrying a stack of folders. 

She marched right up to me and extended the stack of folders.

“Here, Mr. Larsen,” she said as she thrust the folders into my chest. “These are everyone’s records. All the meal tickets and hotel reservations are in these folders. The YMCA is right across the street from the bus station. You are to eat all your meals at the YMCA. And after your physicals tomorrow, you catch the evening bus back to Coos Bay. You will get back here around ten tomorrow night. You’re  are in charge.”

I took the folders, and a bit overwhelmed, I gasped, “Who elected me to be in charge?”

The lady looked me in the eye, and with a stern voice, she said, “You are the oldest one here, Mr. Larsen. And you know what the means!”

One of the men behind the lady stepped up and helped me get the folders into a large bag. “This will help you keep track of everything,” he said.

With that settled, we boarded a half-full bus bound for Portland. It was nearly a five-hour trip.

I placed the folder bag above my seat, along with my overnight bag. Jim was right behind me and threw his bag into the same compartment. I squeezed into the window seat, and Jim settled into the aisle seat beside me.

We introduced ourselves. It was the first words exchanged in the group. We were all in the back of the bus, and you could begin to hear a little chatter from our ranks.

Jim was from Powers and a year younger than me. I was twenty years and a few months old. 

“They have been drafting everyone,” Jim said. “How did you manage to hold out so long?”

“I was in college,” I said. “I dropped out spring term to work. I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Yeah, this Vietnam thing is getting big,” Jim said. “I need to figure out how to flunk this physical. The thing I hear, however, is that they are taking everybody.”

“I’m thinking that I will enlist,” I said. “That way, you at least have some control over what happens to you.”

The bus crossed the bridge heading north out of North Bend. I settled in my seat, hoping for a bit of sleep on the trip to Portland. I knew the road well until Tillamook; after that, it would be new to me. 

There was a constant chatter now coming from our group. Jim seemed a little restless and obviously had no intention to sleep.

There was no stopping until we got to Taft. The Greyhound station was in a house just over Schooner Creek as you entered Taft (now Lincoln City). 

“I have a fake i/d,” Jim said. “Let’s take some orders, and I will buy some booze. The liquor store is just up the street.”

Jim didn’t look eighteen, but the clerk at the liquor store was only worried about the date on the card. We distributed the bottles and the change as best we could. Most of these individuals had little experience drinking whiskey directly from the bottle. 

As the bus continued north, the idle chatter gave way to a dull roar. When the bus got to McMinnville for a stop, the driver caught my arm at the door.

“You need to settle those guys down, or I’m going to put you all off this bus,” the driver said. “You will have to figure out how you are going to get the rest of the way to Portland.”

I was learning that this leadership role wasn’t going to be as much fun as I thought. I made my way to the back of the bus when everyone got back on.

“You guys are going to have to quiet things down, or the drive is going to kick us all off the bus,” I said. There were a few moans, but everyone straightened up, and we made it to Portland.
Getting everyone off the bus was another story. One guy was passed out. Two of his buddies carried him off the bus and across the street with his arms around their shoulders and his feet dragging on the ground. We laid him on the floor in front of the check-in desk.

I gathered all the materials from the folders and got everyone registered. 

“Now, I need everyone to sign the register,” the clerk said.

One by one, everyone signed in. The clerk looked at the guy on the floor.

“He has to sign also,” the clerk said.

Once again, his buddies hoisted him up, put a pen in his hand, and made some sort of a signature. That satisfied the clerk. Then we hauled him upstairs to the rooms and laid him down in the shower. It was a good thing because he vomited shortly after hitting the floor this time.

---

Morning came, and I overslept along with several others. But we survived; everyone got their breakfast ticket, and we hurried down the street to the induction center.

The morning was filled with testing. The test seemed easy to me, and I finished all the tests early. It was not a pleasant environment, with street noise and exhaust odors from the busy streets just outside the window.

Then, we all got the experience of a mass military physical exam. Strip naked and stand in a large circle around the room. Teams of doctors would start around the circle. One group listened to your heart and lungs, one after the other, down the line. The next group studied your head, ears, nose, and throat. Then came the hernia checks; turn your head and cough, and again. One group looked at feet and knees. Then, for the last item, everyone turns around, bends over, and spreads their cheeks. That seemed to last forever. 

Then, it was hearing tests and any rechecks for individuals with items identified in the mass gathering.
After that, it was to get a bite to eat and kill some time until the evening bus. 

The ride home was quiet. Almost everyone slept most of the way. I have every little memory of the trip home.

The good thing was, my car was intact and waiting. In those days, there was little concern about vandalism or theft involving cars parked on the street or in lots for a day or two. 

I drove home, rested, and slept well that night. Now, you only had to wait for the results in the mail to find out what your classification would be. 

Mine, like many others, was 1A, ready for service.

Photo Credit: Malcolm Hill on Pexels.

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