Notes on My Father, From the Archives

Frank William Larsen, 1909 – 1993

D. E. Larsen, DVM

My father’s early life was difficult at its best. He grew into an exceptional father for having grown up without a father. He rarely spoke of his early life. And when he did, he only told stories in small snippets. It took me well over half my life to piece those snippets together into a story.

He was born in Bellingham, Washington. The last of 5 births for his mother. His father was a Norwegian sea captain who sailed lumber schooners from the Northwest to San Francisco. His father went by Samuel Lars Larsen. That is all I knew of Sam for most of my life.


Sam married my Grandmother, Mary Jane (Mollie) Coats, in Bandon, Oregon, in 1903. Sam was 43 years old, and Mollie was 21 and 5 months pregnant. They lived in Bandon and Coos Bay for several years. Sam was known for his fondest of the bottle. Some would call him a drunk, but a high functioning drunk. He had his Master’s License before the age of 40. 

In October of 1905, Sam was master of the schooner Sacramento when it ran aground on Coos Bay’s North Spite. The story was he was anchored waiting out a storm. The anchor line broke, and the ship was aground in the morning. The crew was rescued with herculean efforts by the life-saving team. This was 4 years before my father’s birth, so a large debt is owed to those men, and their wives, by many generations of subsequent Larsen kids.

In January 1906, Sam and Mollie arrived in Bellingham, where his 3 brothers lived. They had their first son and an infant daughter. According to the family story, the daughter was smothered in bed that first evening.

Sam never sailed after that. I suspect he was fired following the shipwreck. Maybe he was sobering up rather than waiting out a storm. That is unknown.

In August of 1910, when my father was 1-year-old, his 2-year-old sister died from acute bloody diarrhea. Sam and Mollie separated following that death. Mollie returned to Bandon with the 3 boys to live with her folks, Thomas and Sarah Coats.

Dad only spoke of his grandfather in Bandon a couple of times. He feared the old Irishman, probably with just cause. Dad set fire to a mattress in the upstairs bedroom when he was 3 or 4, and the old man had to throw the burning mattress out the window. That probably did not endear him to his grandson. His grandfather died when he was 4, and Dad remembered they had him stretched out on the kitchen table, preparing him for burial.

In 1917, Mollie and her mother moved to Southern California. Life was not comfortable there. In early 1920, at the age of 10, Dad and his older brother Merle, who was 13, were checked into The Boys and Girls Aid Society of Los Angeles orphanage by their mother. They were there until they turned 14, not long for Merle but over 3 years for Dad.

That Society has evolved into Five Acres (https://5acres.org). An organization offering a full continuum of care for children and families in crisis, serving over 10,000 children and families annually.

When I tracked down Dad’s records, the administrator said it was good to hear a success story from that era. That those kids had a rough life compared to today’s standards, and there were not many success stories.

Dad was released from the orphanage when he was 14. He worked as a caddie. Dad caddied for Oliver Hardy and caddied for one player in a golf tournament at Pebble Beach. His only comment of that event as he had to sleep in the car. 

During this time, he developed a love for the movies. He would stand around the theater’s entrance until a family came along and then just go through the door with them. Kids were free with paying adults.

He learned to swim well underwater because the pool had tokens on the bottom of the pool. If you found a gold token, you were given free admission the next visit.

His mother remarried when he was 16, and he did not get along with his stepfather. So he hitchhiked to Oregon and stayed with his mother’s sister, Hattie Rogers, in Coquille. He took the only job available and became a whistle punk in the logging woods.

He returned to California for a time, only to hitchhike again to Oregon. Riding the rails on the second trip, he managed to separate the cars at one point, and the hobos were unhappy because the crew kick all of them off the train.

On his second trip, he stayed with another of his mother’s sisters, Annie Tripp. He returned to high school at Myrtle Point at the age of 21. Met my mother, worked in the woods for a time after graduating. After they were married in 1934, he attended Oregon State for a couple of terms.

There are few stories of his high school years. He finished in 2 years, and I find his name on the honor rolls, something I would have never dreamed of growing up. He spoke of stealing Mom from her boyfriend, right in front of him, something I think he looked on with pride. 

1934 OSU Rooks, Frank Larsen, 4th row, behind #64. Slats Gill, 1st row, far left, in suit 

At Oregon State, he managed to make the freshman football squad, The Rooks, coached by Slats Gill. He did get his picture taken with the team but quit before the season was over.

“They just use us for fodder for the varsity,” he told Mom at the time.

After winter term, they came home to Myrtle Point, hitchhiking from Corvallis to Myrtle Point. 

I heard Dad tell a friend. “We ran out of money, and I knocked up the old lady. I had to quit.”

After that, it was work and family. Dad worked in the woods, eventually becoming a donkey puncher, and they lived in logging camps and isolated houses. My sister, Linda, was born in 1935, brothers Larry in 1936, and Gary in 1941. I came along in 1945.

Life was different in Western Oregon in the 1930s and 40s. My brother told my sister’s whittling story on a door jam, and she dropped the knife. It stuck in her eye. Dad had the one car at work, no phone in the house. Mom held my sister with a washcloth over the wound until Dad got home and could get to the doctor.

In January of 1950, Dad purchased a small dairy farm above Broadbent. I am sure this was a significant achievement in his life. We milked cows, and he continued to work in the woods. We were taught work ethics by observation. We would be considered poor by today’s standards, but we thought of ourselves as well to do. California cousins would visit. Arriving in new cars and leaving with soiled clothes and broad smiles.

Dad would build a fire in the kitchen stove, the only heat in the house, before leaving for work at 5:00 AM. Mom and kids did the morning milking before cleaning up to go to school. Dad would get home and do the evening milking, also with the kids.

Dinner was always a family affair, and you would eat what was on your plate, period. Fried chicken nights were always open warfare over the white meat. Mom became creative in cutting up the one chicken for dinner.

I was home when Dad got the call that his mother had died in 1957. He cried, the only time I saw that, and he was mad at himself for it. He never had a relationship with his mother. She never did anything for him, never sent a card to any of the kids. 

I was the youngest of four kids in our family of 3 boys and 1 girl. Everyone argues about which family position is the most favored by the circumstance of birth. I can’t resolve that debate, but I believe that I benefited from observing my siblings receiving their lessons on life from our father. 

Teenage years are always difficult to live through. My father was always there and supportive. When I was 14 or 15, I challenged him, and I learned in no uncertain terms that I was the lesser man. He came at me like a charging bull, and I learned quickly. And that was that.

He saw that I understood that a job was necessary, and I got one starting my junior year in high school. I made cheese for 4 years, after school and summers. 

“You do the best job you can at whatever you do, and you will do well in life,” he told me once. I have taken those words to the bank for many years.

I don’t think he agreed with my enlistment in the Army when Vietnam was a threat, but he supported that decision. I learned in the Army that anyone with a farm boy’s work ethic was ahead of his peers. Work hard and play hard was my philosophy for those 4 years.

Dad played very little golf when we were growing up. Money and time were always in short supply. But when they became empty-nesters, he returned to the golf course. He played well, and I never beat the man. I always thought that he would get old enough and I could beat him one day. But one of his long time playing partners died suddenly, and at 81, Dad quit the game, undefeated by his son.

A couple of years later, Dad was dying from liver disease. I believe it was from a botched gall bladder surgery, but that is another story. When the Doctor in Eugene said he had done all he could do, Dad said, “I want to go home.”

He wanted to die at home, but that was too hard for Mom. Each trip to the hospital left him weaker and weaker. His final few days were spent in a nursing home. And like in birth, death is an event we all must do ourselves.

It took several years for me to fully realize the impact of his passing had on me and my life.

A Morning Call, from the Archives

A Morning Call 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I woke with a jolt and glanced at the clock. It read five in the morning. 

“Damn, did I talk with Larry and then go back to sleep,” I said aloud.

Larry Solar had a dairy out of Buckley, Washington. Unfortunately, he had received some terrible marketing from a huckster selling calcium tablets for cows.

To the ill-informed, it would almost make sense to give a cow calcium for a time before her due date to help prevent milk fever at calving. Milk fever results from the precipitous fall in blood calcium levels when milk production starts in dairy cows.

It is a bit complex, but the exact opposite is true. Cows have a tremendous reserve of calcium in their bones. The problem is that they can’t activate the mechanism to mobilize that calcium rapidly enough when they start producing milk around calving.

The best way to reduce the incidence of milk fever is to force the cow’s body to draw on her calcium reserves during late pregnancy. That way, she has little trouble mobilizing additional calcium when milk production starts.

We do this by feeding a calcium-deficient diet during the dry period. A ration that has abundant phosphorus, so the cow has to balance the calcium-phosphorus ratio by drawing on her reserves.

By following this salesman’s advice and giving his cows a daily dose of calcium for several weeks before calving, Larry’s herd had suffered an epidemic of milk fever cases. 

We had been treating many of his cows, not just once, but often for 3 mornings in a row. So it was almost a routine event during my week on call to visit Larry’s dairy every morning at three. 

Now, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed at five in the morning, wondering if I took his call at three and went back to sleep. The previous two mornings, I had been out to his place to treat one of his cows. I would expect to treat her again this morning. 

What do I do now? My first thought is to run out there, just to make sure. I turn on the light and getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” Sandy asked as she is coming aware of my movements.

“It’s five in the morning, and I’m afraid that I missed Larry’s call at three.”

“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” Sandy said.

“I don’t know what to do. I can almost remember talking with him,” I said.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just give him a call,” Sandy said, trying to interject some reason into my early morning confusion.

“I could do that. Most of those guys have a phone in the barn,” I said. “But I don’t have that number.”

“Call information,” Sandy said as she turned over away from the light to let me know the conversation was over.

Now, half-dressed, I went out to the kitchen, so Sandy could go back to sleep. I still thought it might be easier to just run out there. I could tell him I was coming back from an early call and just wanted to stop by and check on the cow. That would work unless he talked to me at three.

I started the coffee and picked up the phone, and dialed the operator. 

When the operator answered, I said, “Information, please.”

Another operator comes on, “Information,” she says.

“Do you have a number for Larry Solar in Buckley?” I asked.

There was a pause as she looked up the number.

“Actually, there are two numbers for that listing,” the operator said.

“Does one say the barn?” I asked.

“No, there are just two numbers,” she said.

“Give me the second number,” I said. “I guess I better take both numbers, now that I think about it.”

I poured a cup of coffee and took a drink. I had to think about this a bit. I didn’t want to sound like a complete idiot. I took another long sip from the cup. I don’t understand how people can live without coffee.

I dialed the second number. It ran three times before Larry answered.

“Hello,” Larry said.

“Larry, this is Doctor Larsen. Did you call earlier?” I said.

“Nope, I didn’t call this morning, Doc,” Larry said. “That is sort of strange, I know. But the old cow is doing fine this morning.”

“Sorry to be a bother, I just woke up at five and had the feeling that I had talked to you and went back to sleep.”

“With any kind of luck, I might be getting out of this problem a bit,” Larry said. “This cow only got a couple of those pills before you guys told me to throw them in the trash. But thanks for calling and checking.”

“That’s a good sign, I guess,” I said. “My guess is that guy won’t be too welcome at your place again.”

“I have already given him an earful,” Larry said. “I think that I was not the only one to have problems, just from the way he talked.”

“I’ll let you get back to your milking, Larry,” I said. “I think I will sit here and watch the sunrise this morning while I finish my coffee.”

Photo by Oliver Augustijn on Unsplash

The Lost Snake 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Bob Lester joined my practice in Sweet Home in the late 1980s. It was good timing because I had trouble keeping up with the workload.

I had found that solo practice was somewhat self-limiting. Clients would feel slighted when the workload was too much, and a few would go elsewhere for their services. It was the sad part of doing things by yourself. I thought it was better than limiting the practice by not accepting new clients, especially when we were the only show in town.

We went from a hectic one-man practice to a slow two-man practice. Bob was more into marketing than I was, mainly because I never had to worry about it. At least with the two of us, we were afforded a little time away from the practice.

On a Thursday morning, Dennis placed a cardboard box on the front counter. Ruth had learned that cardboard boxes could mean almost anything, and most of those things were not good.

“What’s in the box?” Ruth asked.

“My boa constrictor,” Dennis replied. “Don’t worry, he’s dead. I was wanting one of the docs to do an autopsy and tell me why he died.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ruth said. “Just a moment, and I will get Dr. Lester.”

Bob was just finishing up in the treatment area when Ruth found him.

“Dennis is out front with a boa constrictor,” Ruth said.

“Oh, great!” Bob said. “That’s just what I want to do this morning: look at a big snake.”

“It’s dead,” Ruth said. “He just wants to find out why it died.”

“That’s better. I’ll be out and talk with him in a moment,” Bob said.

“Dennis, Ruth tells me you have a dead snake in that box,” Bob said. “When did it die?”

“He was dead in his cage this morning,” Dennis said. “I had no idea that he had a problem. That’s why I would like to find out why he died.”

“The best way to do that would be for you to take him over to the diagnostic lab at the vet school in Corvallis,” Bob said.

“I’ve got a full schedule today,” Dennis said. “There is no way that I can get him to Corvallis.”

“We don’t have a courier service here, but if we hurry, we can get him on the bus to Corvallis,” Bob said. “That works pretty well most of the time. Once the box gets to the bus station in Corvallis, the lab sends someone down to pick it up. They should have results in a few days.”

“How much is this going to cost me?” Dennis asked.

“That depends on how much you want them to do,” Bob said. “If you want them to do a gross necropsy where they open him up and look through his systems, it won’t be too much. Sometimes that is all they need to do for a diagnosis. If you want them to do cultures and microscopic exams of the tissues, then it can be a little expensive. But you get a more accurate diagnosis.”

“I don’t need a bunch of lab work,” Dennis said. “Let’s just do the gross thing.”

“Good, let me take the box, and we will get him packaged up and on the bus,” Bod said. “I will give you a call when we get results.”

Bob took the snake in the box and glanced over it just to make sure there was no external injury that would account for the death. Then, after finding no external damage, he packaged it for shipment and placed several ice packs in the box to keep it cool in the summer heat.

Ruth ran the box to the bus depot, and the snake was out of our hair. Now we just needed to wait for a call from the diagnostic lab for the results.

***

The following week, Dennis stopped by the clinic to check on the results from the diagnostic lab.

Sandy pulled his file and found the request that Bob had filled out but no report from the lab.

“I don’t find any result,” Sandy said. “Just a minute, and I will see if Dr. Lester has had a call from the lab.”

Bob and Ruth were working on a cat in the treatment area. 

“Dennis is out front wondering about the necropsy results on his snake,” Sandy said.

“I haven’t heard a word,” Bob said. “I guess I sort of forgot about it. Why don’t you call the lab? They should have had results by now.”

Sandy called the lab, and they had not received any shipment from our clinic.

“What does that mean?” Dennis asked.

“I guess that means the snake is lost somewhere,” Sandy said. “We will try to track it down, but it will probably be too late for the lab to give you any information if we find it.”

The bus depot had information that they had shipped the box, but Corvallis depot had no record of receiving it. The snake had just disappeared.

***

It was several weeks later when Ruth took a phone call. She had Bod take the call.

“I think they have found the snake,” Ruth said. “The guy on the phone doesn’t sound too happy. I think you should talk with him.”

“Good morning, this is Dr. Lester. How can I help you?” Bob asked the guy on the phone.

“Yes, this is the depot manager for Greyhound in Yreka, California,” the guy said sternly. “I just pulled this box from one of our bus’s cargo compartments. It was stuck in a back corner. It is the most God-awful-smelling box I have ever handled. It is addressed to Oregon State University and has your return address. What the hell did you send them, and what should I do with it now?”

“Ah, we wondered what happened to that box,” Bob said. “Whatever you do, don’t open it. Just throw it away. It has no use at this point in time.”

Photo by deedee on Pexels.