This Shana Olson, from my recent story, “The Pup”, published on September 1. She has been doing well in this contest, if you are inclined to vote for her, the link is below. Thanks for you consideration. She is hero in many respects. Dave Larsen
It Reflects on the Mother
D. E. Larsen, DVM
The room was crowded. So much so that we kids were relegated to the floor or to a corner of the couch if we were lucky enough to find one open.
These old houses were built for large families, but only for one generation of large families. Mom fit in the middle of ten kids, and I was leading the trailing third of thirty cousins. The room was crowded.
Thanksgiving dinner in 1955 had been a massive event, with card tables scattered to every corner of the great room of Uncle Dutch’s house. Counting kids, there were maybe fifty people for dinner. The women filled the kitchen, and there were many trips to and from the main table before the word was given for everyone to get set down.
I had an olive on every finger when I headed to the far corner of the assigned kid’s table. The kid’s tables were arranged according to age. The younger you were, the further away from the adult table you were seated.
Now, everyone was just sitting around talking. A few of the men were scavenging the last of the pumpkin pie.
The rain was the main topic right now. It was pouring down, and Robert said they were talking about five inches of rain on the radio earlier. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like a lot of rain.
“We are going to have to head home,” Robert said. “With this much rain, if the creek doesn’t flood us in, the slides on our road will keep us here. And I don’t think there are enough beds for everyone. I guess David and Gary can sleep in the haymow.”
I knew he was kidding me, but I didn’t want to get stuck here. When Catching Creek flooded, it was usually several days before the water went down.
As soon as Robert and Lila left, the topic turned to their neighbor’s high school daughter. She had been sent away to have a baby. Most of the adults agreed with that process.
“It is better to just do it and not spend a lot of time discussing it in the community,” Mom had said.
“It reflects on the mother!” someone said. I am not sure who.
I could see Mom twist in her chair and wring her hands. She always did that when she did like something that was being said. I knew she hated those words. But, more importantly, she always said, “If you don’t have something good to say, you don’t say anything at all.”
Mom got up and started moving the last of the dishes to the kitchen. That signaled to everyone that the discussion was closed. It was time to go home.
With the house reasonably returned to normal, everyone started out the door. There was a long pause on the porch as the torrential rain continued. It was finally our turn to run to the car. We were soaked when we got there.
When we crossed the bridge over Catching Creek, the water was starting to lap at the underside of the bridge.
“I will be over the road in another hour,” Dad said.
“It’s a good time to be leaving,” Mom said. “Robert was right. We would have all been stuck there for several days. We probably would have had to boil the horse’s oats for it all over.”
“Why didn’t you say something when they said it reflected on the mother?” Dad asked Mom.
“Oh, it makes me so mad when they always have to blame the mother for everything,” Mom said. “But I didn’t have anything to say that I wouldn’t have regretted having said it.”
The 1955 Thanksgiving flood in southwestern Oregon was a major storm. The flooding had been the worst in most of the memories at the time. Uncle Duke lost his barn in the storm. We made it home, just in time to be flooded in with no electricity for nearly a week.
The good thing was we got out of school for an extended Thanksgiving break.
***
I always assumed that the baby was born fine. I don’t know because, true to her words, it was never spoken of again in our house.
I learned Mom’s lessons well and seldom say anything unfavorable in public. I try hard at times to follow her example, at least.
I would find it took nearly another thirty years before I reached the adult’s table at the family dinners. People pass away, and families scatter across this great state and country.
Today, the neighbor kids came home from school and were playing outside. One boy, who is about ten, is obnoxiously loud. When we are inside, we can’t hear him. But he consistently drives me inside when I am sitting on the deck.
I can’t imagine how a teacher could control this kid in a classroom. I glanced out the window today when they had an apparent crash on a bicycle in the street. This kid was really acting out, throwing his bike around and making a racket.
“I think it probably reflects on his mother,” I said to Sandy.
She just smiled.
Photo is a family photo from 1949. It illustrates how people made due at family gatherings.
One Little Screech, From the Archives
D. E. Larsen, DVM
Sandy pulled into our driveway and parked. The kids all piled out of the car and head for the house. Sandy followed with a sack of groceries.
“Mom hit an owl,” Brenda said as soon as she came through the door.
“It just swooped down and ran right into the car,” Dee said with arms out to show the tilt of the wings.
Sandy finally came through the door carrying a bag of groceries which she quickly set on the table. She pulled out a chair and sit down, burying her head in her hands for a moment.
“It was horrible,” Sandy finally said. “It just happened so fast, I couldn’t do anything. This little owl just swooped down into the headlights and ran right into the car. I think it realized its mistake at the last minute. His wings flared, and he sort of turned sideways, and then he disappeared from view under the hood.”
“Did you see him on the road after you hit him?” I asked.
“I didn’t hit him!” Sandy said. “He hit me. And no, I didn’t see him on the road. If you haven’t noticed, it is dark outside.”
“Well, don’t feel so bad about it,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. It is just one of those things that happen. It would have been dangerous to try to swerve to miss him.”
“I know. I just feel bad about the girls having to see it happen.”
“Maybe I better go check the front of the car,” I said.
I went out, with Amy and Dee in tow, and looked at the front of the car. Sure enough, there was a little owl stuck in the grill.
“Run and get me a flashlight, Amy,” I said as I knelt down to look closer.
This was a little screech owl. He was unconscious, but his heart was beating strong. He had one wing struck through the grill, which seemed to be what was holding him in place.
Amy returned with the flashlight, and with a better light on the subject, I carefully removed the owl from the grill.
“Is he alive?” Dee asked.
“He is alive,” I said. “Knocked out, but alive. Let’s take him in so I can get a better look at him.”
“But you don’t treat birds,” Amy said.
“For tonight, I am all he has. Tomorrow, if he is still alive, we will take him over to Dr. Britton in Albany. He is the veterinarian who takes care of all the owls and hawks in this area. You guys maybe remember me talking about Dr. Britton just the other day.”
“Oh, yes,” Amy said. “He is the one who stops and checks all the opossums who are killed on the road. He takes the babies in their pouch to feed to the hawks and owls he has in the hospital.”
“That’s the one,” I said. “And Dr. Britton tells me to have people put the injured owl in a box to keep it quiet until they can bring it over to him. So you guys get a box, and I will check this guy over on the dining room table.”
We placed a towel on the table, and I carefully positioned the little owl on the towel with the wing caught in the grill on the upside. I checked the little owl over and could find no injuries. I extended the wing that caught in the grill. It was okay, no fractures found, and even his flight feathers were undamaged.
“This guy must have put the brakes on pretty hard to escape any major injury,” I said.
“What are we going to do with him?” Sandy asked.
“I am going to give him a dose of dexamethasone and put some eye drops in his eyes. Then we will put him in the box, padded with a couple of towels, and see what morning gives us. If he can’t fly away in the morning, we will take him over to Dr. Britton.”
“Why do you call him a him all the time,” Amy said. “How do you know it is not a girl owl?”
“I don’t know if he is a she,” I said. “When I was taught the English language, I was taught to use the male pronoun when the sex was not known. I just do what Mrs. Starr told me to do.”
“Who is Mrs. Starr?” Brenda asked.
“She was my English teacher in high school.”
I went out to the truck and got some eye drops and a bottle of dexamethasone. Guessing at the weight, I gave this little owl two-tenths of a cc of dexamethasone and a couple of drops of lubricating eye drops in each eye. Figuring he had to have a pretty good knock on the head, the dexamethasone should relieve any swelling and inflammation. The eye drops were just to protect the surface of his eyes.
We put the box over in the corner, and everyone was instructed to leave it alone. A couple of hours later, the girls wanted to check the owl before going to bed.
I carefully opened the top of the box and peeked inside. There was the little owl, sitting up and looking at me with bright eyes.
“He’s awake and looks pretty good,” I said.
Of course, everyone had to peek.
“Maybe we should see if he wants to fly away,” I said.
I took the box out and put it down on the driveway. With the box opened, I stepped back. Nothing happened for a moment. I went over to the box and offered my hand for a perch. The little owl jumped on my forearm. When I lifted him clear of the confines of the box, he took off and flew into the night.
Everyone cheered.
“That makes me feel much better,” Sandy said.
Memoirs of a Country Vet 