Four-Leaf Clover 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

They called Korea the Land of Morning Calm for a good reason; there seemed to be a slight fog hanging over the rice paddies, and only a couple farmers were moving down to check on the water flow through the paddies. It was early May 1967, and the country was warming up from a chilly spring. The sun was warm as we walked up the hill to the operations building. 

“It looks like it will be a warm day,” I told Truman as we walked along. I had to consciously lengthen my stride to keep pace with my tall friend.

“Some of the old timers were saying that we will have good weather now until the monsoon rains start sometime next month,” Truman said as we checked in at the guard station.

Mr. Neal, the new warrant officer in charge of maintenance, was waiting for us when we got to the shop.

“I have been waiting to talk with you, Larsen,” Mr. Neal said. “Major Dillon, the new CO, has decided that he wants to have an honor guard for the 177th.”

“That sounds like a bunch of military BS,” I said.

“Yes, you’re probably correct, but you have to put up with those things from time to time in this man’s army,” Mr. Neal said. “Anyway, the shop has to supply a body, and since we moved you to your new job as the quality control NCOIC, it looks like your schedule is the one with the most free time. So, Larsen, you’re the body. You are to report to supply this afternoon and pick up all the uniform additions. Then you will have drill practice every day at eleven.”

“I guess I don’t have any say in this selection,” I said. 

“Major Dillon has an open door policy every Tuesday evening,” Mr. Neal said. “You are free to go talk with him if you would like. But my guess would be it won’t do you any good. His plan is to have an honor guard performance every time we have the big brass visit. It won’t be a big deal for you, Larsen, just give your house boy an extra ten dollars, and he will take care of your uniform, brass, and boots.”

Mr. Neal was right, of course. Major Dillon would not budge an inch on my participation in the honor guard. I spoke with him every Tuesday evening at six or eighteen hundred hours. His story was always the same, I was doing a great job, and it would only help my career in the Army. 

My house boy was ecstatic. He had been on an honor guard when he was in the Korean Army, so he knew all the tricks.

“You will be the best dressed on the honor guard,” he said with a bit of a puffed-up chest. “I know all the tricks to make things shine.”

Per capita income in South Korea in 1967 was about twenty-six dollars a year. The Army paid These house boys well, and then they were tipped five dollars a month by each of the twelve guys he cleaned house for. An extra ten dollars a month was a significant increase in his pay.

I picked up my stuff from supply, and my houseboy went right to work. When I got back to my room that first evening, my silver helmet was on my nightstand, shining in sunlit, filtering through the window.

Then drills started. We worked hard, and in the summer heat, I was tired when I got to the mess hall for lunch.

The routine at each practice was the same. The close-order drill was easy for everyone to pick up. Some of the tricks with the rifles were harder to master, but we were coming along.

As the summer progressed and the monsoons were approaching, the days were hotter, and the humidity was high. We started taking a break in the middle of the practice.

On one sweltering morning, everyone sort of melted to the ground when break time came. I laid on my back for a few minutes and then rolled over. I noticed that I was lying on a small patch of clover when suddenly, a four-leafed clover caught my eye.

I plucked the clover and got to my knees as I showed it to the other guys. Then I looked at the patch of clover a little closer. Nearly all the clovers had four or more leaves. 

Now the whole bunch of us were going over this small patches of clover, maybe six feet in diameter. The drill sergeant came over to see what we were doing. I handed him a clover with seven leaves.

He looked at it closely. Then he sort of surveyed the area where the parade field was located.

“You guys know, they fought a war right here not too many years ago,” the sergeant said. “I wonder what was dumped on this sport to cause this abnormal growth in this clover patch?”

Everyone looked around, and we all sprang to our feet at the same time. That was the last time we took a break on that parade field.

My stint on the Honor Guard lasted until my departure at the end of October. Major Dillon was true to his word and placed a letter in the personnel file attesting to my outstanding performance on his honor guard. It was probably a bit overstated, but it was likely helpful in my promotion to E-6 the following September in Germany.

Photo by Djalma Paiva Armelin on Pexels.

Gus and Blackie, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

We watched as Blackie hurried across Main Street, almost in the crosswalk and with no regard for the traffic light, his long leash trailing behind him. Blackie was a Dachshund cross, solid black in color, and the structure of a Dachshund. 

Blackie was always in the lead and always seemed to know where they were going. And not too far behind, came Gus. Gus, with his narrow brimmed hat, cocked to the side of his head and sporting a grouse feather stuck in its band. 

Gus was much slower afoot than Blackie and walked with a broom. He walked a little bent over, favoring his lower back. He always gave the appearance of someone who just got out of bed and dressed quickly. Never getting everything on just right. His shirt was half tucked in, and his greying hair was sticking out from under his hat in all directions.

Blackie was at the clinic door now, patiently waiting for Gus to arrive. The leash strung out on the sidewalk behind him. This leash was Gus’ way of complying with the city’s leash law. Gus was schizophrenic. Medication keeps him functional in the community, but if he is off medication, he has problems, and he is well known to the police.

Ruth opened the door for Blackie and waited a couple of minutes for Gus.

“What are you two up to today?” she asked.

“Blackie thinks he needs to see the Doc,” Gus replied, leaning on his elbows on the counter to catch his breath.

“Come on Blackie,” Ruth says, as she gathers up his leash. “Let’s go get your file.”

Gus always played the role of being a little dense or slow. But, the reality was he was as sharp as a tack. If you wanted to know what was going on in town, all you had to do was ask Gus. He knew everything about everyone and every business. He just had difficulty articulating the facts in a manner that anyone could understand.

Blackie was due for his annual exam, vaccinations and a heartworm test. We would have mailed a card tomorrow. That is how well Gus kept track of things.

Blackie was an excellent patient on the exam table as long as you talked with him and took things slow. If you tried to zip through the exam and stick him with a needle without adequate conversation, he would get a little snappy.

“Gus, I see that Blackie is doing well,” I said. 

“He does okay, you send the bill, gal over at the DQ has a problem,” Gus stammers.

I have found that Gus will carry on 2 or 3 conversations at the same time. Giving snippets of each sentence stitched together in a manner that is almost incomprehensible if you don’t listen very carefully.

“John takes care of it, I think her boyfriend left,” Gus continues. “I will get your sidewalk, maybe she is pregnant.’

Gus kept track of all the drama in town, I never knew how he came up with his information. I think maybe people didn’t pay attention to him, thinking he was never listening.

“I ran a guy off last night, John says Blackie owes some money,” Gus continued.

“Blackie’s bill is fine,” I said. “You don’t worry about Blackie. We will take care of him.”

“They didn’t like me in that jet,” Gus said. “That guy next door doesn’t like me; in Korea, they were mad. I only moved it a little.”

Gus must have been in the Air Force, he often spoke of being in a fighter jet and taxiing it a small distance. I would guess that probably ended his military career. And there were several folks in town which he had altercations with in the past.  Those seemed to stick in his mind and come out once in a while. 

Gus was not allowed in any of the bars in town because if he drank, especially if he forgot his medication, he would become violent and unmanageable. It was not unusual for Gus to require a few weeks in the state hospital in Salem to get straightened out.

John related one trip he made, taking Gus to the state hospital. John said that Gus babbled all the way to Salem and then was real quiet when they were waiting to see the doctor.  John said that they saw a new, young doctor that day. When the doctor was interviewing Gus, Gus was as normal as John had ever seen him. Just when the doctor was getting ready to send Gus back home, Gus snapped back into his incomprehensible babble. John said the doctor’s eyes just popped.

But, for all his problems, Gus did pretty well. His family had provided him a small house. Gus worked every day, sweeping and cleaning up small areas. He got funds, probably SSI, and maybe some state funds from time to time. He swept sidewalks in front of businesses and looked after small things out front, like bums hanging out. I took care of Blackie. The A&W fed him lunch and dinner at times, although he usually had to eat outside. Some of the women in town would clean his house on occasion.

If everyone on public assistance did a fraction of the work that Gus did, communities would be far better off. And that segment of the population would be looked upon with better favor.

Photo by Mel Elias on Unsplash

Driving Blind, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

This was one of extra busy days in the middle of July. The appointment book was full. Most of the problems were flea problems. I always became weary of discussing the flea life cycle with folks. We were trying to put out the fire that should have been controlled last winter.

I noticed Ed sitting out in the reception area. He had a small dog on his lap. I knew Ed from my days bowling for the Elks Club team in the Thursday night men’s league. Ed was older, probably in his 70s, balding, and he wore thick glasses. He was short and stocky and somewhat rounded by the years.

“What’s up with Ed,” I asked Sandy as she was passing on a run? 

“He has a flea problem with his dog, but no appointment,” Sandy said. “I told him we would try to work him in, but we were booked solid today.”

I stepped back into the exam room and started my rehearsed spiel on flea control. Flea control was difficult to impossible if folks had not been working at it all year round. When the heat of July and August hit, the fleas hatch from everywhere. They just about eat the poor dogs and cats alive.

“This is a typical case of flea allergy dermatitis,” I started. “The hair loss and the skin lesions are back here by the tail. It doesn’t take much looking to see the fleas scatter.”

I spread the hair on the dog’s back, and fleas ran in all directions. I turned her over and showed a dozen fleas on his belly.

“The flea collar doesn’t do a lot of good at this point,” I said. “His little cloud of protection is a few feet behind him as he runs around the house.”

“There are no fleas in my house, Doctor,” Mrs. Jones said flatly.

“This time of the year, fleas are everywhere. Getting them under control is difficult. It requires flea bombs in the house and flea dips on the dog. And then, the process needs to be repeated every week for several treatments. Sometimes we need to use a yard spray also.”

“I don’t have fleas in my house,” Mrs. Jones repeated. “We had to sit out in your reception area for almost 15 minutes today. That must be where all these fleas came from.”

“I can give you some medication that will help the skin, but without flea control, Chloe is going to have a bare tailhead until winter. If you would like, I can give you a referral to a veterinary dermatologist in Newberg.”

At about this time, I hear a big commotion in the reception area. I excuse myself for a moment. I get a brief respite from Mrs. Jones.

Ed is up on his feet and arguing with Sandy and Ruth.

I step out to the reception room. Ed is red-faced and clutching his little dog tight enough that his eyes are bulging a little.

“Doc, damn it, I have been sitting out here for 15 minutes, and this lady comes in, and they take her back before me. It is my turn.”

“Ed, Sandy told you we would try to work you in. We have a solid book of appointments this afternoon. That lady had an appointment. My policy is to see appointments on time if possible.”

“Damn it, Doc, I am telling you, it ain’t fair,” Ed said.

Now I was a little upset. I took a step toward Ed and pointed to the door.

“Ed, the door is right there, don’t let it hit you in the ass as you leave,” I said. “The next clinic is about 19 miles down the road.”

“No, I don’t need to do that,” Ed said, holding his hands out in defense of my approach. “I just wanted to make sure I was not being slighted by the girls. I will wait for my turn.”

Ed returned to his seat, and I returned to Mrs. Jones, probably not in the mood to discuss where Chloe’s fleas came from. I am sure everyone in the clinic had heard the altercation.

“I don’t need a referral,” Mrs. Jones said. “You can fix me up with what I need and see how it works.”

That was a lot easier than I expected, and it allowed us enough time to get Ed into an exam room.

When I finally got to Ed, we were both apologetic. We treated his little dog with fleas, along with most of the other dogs that day.

Several months later, Ed and his wife were in the clinic at a much quieter time. I had ample time for some casual conversation.

“Are you still bowling, Doc,” Ed asked?

“No, I have an old football injury to my left knee and figured I better give it up,” I said.

“I had to give it up, too,” Ed said. “My vision got so bad that I couldn’t see the pins at the end of the alley.”

“That would make it pretty difficult,” I said.

“Yes, and I don’t drive,” his wife said. “So when he is driving now, we drive the old pickup with bench seats. I sit really close to him, sort of like when we were teenagers, and I tell him what is coming down the road.”

“That sounds a little dangerous,” I said. “You guys maybe should get some help before you are in a wreck.”

“It works okay right now, Doc,” Ed said. “Our son is getting his job changed around, and he is going to move his family in with us pretty soon. Things will be better then, and I won’t be driving so much.”

“Okay, that sounds better, but you need to be careful out on that road.”

Photo by Carlos Esteves on Unsplash