A Short Story About a Russian Sailor and a Squirrel

                    The continuing tale of my father, David Owen, and his adventures along the Oregon coast.

 

     While my dad lived in Oregon with his brother Harold, their father George and LaVera, their stepmother, I don’t think the boys went to school. He never mentioned attending classes. It seems he just got into a lot of mischief, as youngsters that age are prone to do with little supervision and guidance.

     My father told me that many ships came into port from all over the world. One time he spent the day playing in a park close to the docks, running in the grass, and dodging tall trees. The cool shade was adequate, but he was thirsty and made his way to a fountain. As “Davey” took sips, he watched several squirrels scampering up and down limbs.

     In the meantime, a freighter docked from Russia. The weary sailors disembarked, many making their way to the very park my dad was playing in. One burly maritime comrade separated from the others. He said in broken English that he was from Russia. My dad kept a safe distance, not wanting to be shanghaied, but observed that the man was also eyeing the squirrels.

     “Good eating, those?” asked the sailor.

     My dad had eaten a few that his big brother shot and cooked during hard times and nodded. “Yes, they are.” He imagined fresh-fried squirrel and dumplings were better than the buggy sea rations and salted fishes that the sailors must have consumed for several weeks.

     The sailor reminded Davey just a little of the cartoon character Bluto from the Popeye comics and he watched with amusement as the large-armed stranger casually walked toward a bunch of the rodents. Their bushy tails twitched a little, but generally they had little to fear from the average picnicking families and their children. The little animals went about their business.

     The Russian set his sights on a fluffy momma squirrel with large haunches who rested beneath a tree that had a wide girth. As the foreigner approached, she eyed him with disinterest. The Russian looked to see if his audience was watching. Yes, indeed, Davey wanted to know what would happen next. The big man got closer, so the bushy-tailed animal jumped, but instead of scaling up the tree bark, it ran to the other side of the trunk. Davey and the man could still see the tip of a wee tail flicking from the other side, just above some gnarled roots. “Bluto” ran to that side of the tree, so Momma Squirrel did the same, running to the opposite, as if she was playing a game. Davey laughed, the Ruskie guffawed and grinned. He looked around the thick trunk; she looked from the other side, and it went on like that for several minutes until the squirrel had enough and climbed about five feet up, clinging to bark. She was still and quiet. Davey could see large shoulders heaving on the other side, then two hulking muscular arms reaching out as if to hug the tree. Then came the two hands with sausage-like fingers that, in an instant, throttled the squirrel around its slender middle.

     Just as quickly, the toothed, angry creature began to chew the man’s hands. He screamed and howled, but for some reason he would not loosen his grip! My dad watched in stunned horror as the fierce battle for survival went on and the intense pain-infused yelping from the other side of the oak continued.

     Suddenly the fingers disengaged. The squirrel dropped to the ground and hobbled off. Bluto came from the other side of the log, blood dripping from his meaty hands.

     “You!” He lifted a digit that looked like it had met with a sausage grinder and pointed it at Davey. “Look at my hands! They are no good to me now! YOU said it was good to eat! I should kill you!”

     My dad, with the swiftness of the unremorseful boy he was, ran a ways and said, “Yes, they are good to eat, but I never told you to catch one with  your  bare  hands!”

     So, the boy ran as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the park and as far from the scene as he could reasonably get. He did not go back there for some time, but there was more mischief to be enjoyed, as we shall see next week.

                        Harold Klein Owen and David Evert Owen in Detroit, just before their big move to Oregon

My Father's Journey to Oregon and Sneaking Into The Temple

     About 1942, my father David Owen, and the brother closest in age to him, Harold, ventured to Oregon. My grandparents had divorced and remarried—in fact my grandmother, Arizona was newly wed to her second husband, Roy Farmer.

     These two youngest sons, were about to enter puberty and were full of mischief. They were no longer little children digging forts in a backyard in Detroit. The United States had only just entered World War two; Eugene and Edward, the older sons, were soldiers. Sisters Lynn-Marie and Delma were married and engaged, respectively.  It’s understandable that Zona and Roy needed some time to themselves.

     Grandpa (known as Ransom by friends and siblings, and Papa George by the youngsters) lived in Oregon with his second wife LaVera, so the boys were shipped by bus, west from Detroit. It was a long journey for two boys almost twelve and ten. They sat, day after day, city after city, state after state. They left the concrete of Detroit and soon entered highways lined with trees, drove past lakes, then farms, and through Chicago’s streets famed for gangsters, hooch and speakeasies only a decade or two before. When the boys left the Windy City, tall buildings behind them became smaller in the distance and soon there were only small towns, fields and little farmhouses to break the landscape during the day. If sleep came at all, it was fitful, bouncing and jostling in the hard seats. The whir of the large tires was their lullaby.  During the crossing, trees gave way to plains, plains changed to arid landscapes and within days, the Rocky Mountains came into view.

     In those days, older children could safely wander most cities as long as they didn’t venture far from the station. They’d listen for an announcement calling them to board yet another bus.

     Just as their transportation was entering Utah, the driver said, “Utah was settled by the Mormons in the 1880s. They turned a desert wasteland into what today, is a thriving state. Many of you have heard of Brigham Young and his many wives. He sent missionaries out into the world to preach, and when they departed, those boys were told to gather more women. ‘Bring them back and bring ’em young! bring ‘em young!’” the man joked.

     The vehicle pulled into the station in Salt Lake City. Passengers departed, some meeting relatives and others stretching their aching legs. Davey and Harold were told to return at a designated time, but they had a few hours to explore. They day was warm and the sun was shining. Davey toured around Temple Square and learned about the miracle of the seagulls who had flocked in to eat an invasion of crickets that were devouring the newly sprouting crops; the only food that the pioneers had. If not for those birds, the newly arrived families surely would have starved.

     By mid-day, alone in the bright direct sun, my dad being the curious boy he was, sought shade and respite in the large building he was nearest to. He entered a door that was obviously not being used. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, the boy looked around, saw alters and such. There was some light and he saw a group of people in another room, dressed in white.

     A very surprised older gentleman saw him. The man walked over and asked, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

     Davey pointed, then answered, “I’m waiting for my bus. I came through that door over that way.” The old man gently guided him right back out the door, into the bright sun. He found Harold and the two made their way through the city and back to the station.

     Soon they heard a voice call them to board their bus to Oregon and days later, the boys were reunited with their Papa George. Davey was bound to get into more mischief and his brief adventure into the historic Salt Lake City Temple was only the beginning.

 

To be continued.

Photograph of the bus station in Salt Lake City ca. 1940's