THE NARRATIVE ARC

Angels Come in Every Size

Some people enter our lives only to lift us up

April 1983

“Oh, no…Oh no! Oh NO!”

I was crying my eyes out as I ran down the mile long unnamed logging road that descended from my bus stop to the house where my parents would dock their skiff and pick me up from school. There was no road to our home, so my parents had gotten permission from the retired couple that lived across the lake to allow me to walk to their house after school every day. They also let my folks park our small VW Bug in their yard.

I was nine years old, and I had to pee so bad I was doubled over in pain. But I could NOT get my belt undone to save my soul.

The belt was a new one my mother had purchased because I begged her for it, and it was turning this day into the worst day of my life.

It was a beautiful rainbow corded flat belt with leather ends and a two-loop buckle system that when it was fastened correctly was tighter than any lock. I stopped on the side of the gravel road and wailed. Dancing and crying and pulling at my belt, I just couldn’t get it undone.

I had no choice. I peed my pants right there in the middle of the road.

So overcome with shame and embarrassment, I couldn’t even look up. I took off my coat and tied it around my waist, held my backpack in front of me, then slowly made my way down the road to the small cabin where two of the best people I’ve ever known made their home.

Larry and Dolores Ivarsson owned a small two-bedroom house on the shore of South Lake, near Coos Bay, Oregon. Larry was a mountain of a man. He was over six foot six, and at least 350 pounds. A retired metal and wood worker, he had built their small house and many of the pieces inside. Their kids and grandkids all lived in Washington state, so they were effectively isolated from their family, out here in the wilds of the Oregon coast. As an avid Bass fisherman, Larry would have it no other way.

Dolores was smaller and loved all of the early ‘80’s floral polyester tops and slacks, the kind with a gathered neckline and keyhole bow. She was quiet, where Larry was loud. Larry was so incredibly Swedish he practically oozed the North Dakota accent that followed him to Oregon. But, he was also a wonderful father and grandfather, and he loved having a kid in his house again.

I was something they both looked forward to every day. I’d come running down that old logging road turned driveway at full tilt, because I had to be there before 3:30 p.m.

We didn’t have a TV at our home, but Larry and Dolores had a massive console color television attached to a twenty-foot satellite receiver drilled into a concrete pad off the side of their home. It looked like something from NASA.

They could get Little House on the Prairie!

Every afternoon, I’d come barreling down that road, and Larry would open the sliding glass door at his back deck and yell, “Hurry up! Yer show’s starting.”

Panting like a dog, I’d plop in my favorite recliner and Larry would serve me a glass of 7-up, and a plate of RyeKrisp topped with cheese slices and at least two sticks of celery filled with peanut butter and raisins.

It was heaven.

Sometimes he’d have me try samples of his favorite Swedish delicacies. Like his homemade pickled fish called “Sill.” It was firm, briny and fresh. He used halibut or cod. Even as a kid, I liked it.

The Ivarsson’s had two dogs as well. One ancient Dachshund, named Tinker and a big black Lab, named Travis. Those dogs loved me just as much as Larry did and I had to fight them off when I’d get in the house.

There is nothing in the world as wonderful as knowing that both the people and the animals in a house are so happy to see you, they can’t stop making noise or moving. My home wasn’t always pleasant, so these people were the highlight of my day.

After Little House was over, then MASH came on, and then the news. My parents knew Larry and Dolores liked to have me around for a bit, so they wouldn’t bring the boat over until after those shows were done.

I was never unhappy when I knew I was going to see them. Sometimes the satellite would go out if the weather was too stormy, so then Dolores would teach me to play cards. We’d both have snacks, and she showed me how to play Crazy Eights, Go Fish, “Four-card No Peeky” Sometimes known as Golf, and a simple version of Gin Rummy. They’d have the radio tuned to the NPR talk radio station and we’d play cards, talk about my day.

Sometimes I’d help them around the house. I’d run out and bring kindling in for their big woodstove or help Dolores wash dishes. Other times they’d have me bring their mail down after I got off the bus. It was the least I could do.

Larry had emphysema and diabetes. I never saw him smoke a cigarette in his life, so I think it may have been from some other type of damage. He was such a huge man. I’d hear him wheeze, just sitting in his reclining lift chair. He only wore big denim bib-overalls and sweatshirts. His house slippers were the only thing I ever saw on his swollen feet other than rubber boots.

A few times a year, they’d invite my family over for dinner and a movie. They had a Betamax VCR, too. So that was my first introduction to seeing a movie at home.

It was spectacular. Larry would make his famous Swedish meatballs, fried cabbage, buttered noodles and fresh-baked bread with the ever-present jar of homemade pickled fish and onions. My parents would bring the Alta-Dena ice cream, beer and a bowl of potato salad.

One of these evenings, Larry disappeared for a bit and there was a lot of furtive whispering with my dad. When it was time to go home, Larry made a big deal of getting my coat and boots from the back room. He held them out for me with great glee.

When I put my arms down the sleeves, I couldn’t get my hands through. Eventually, I realized they were rubber banded shut by great thick rubber bands!

Much laughter and knee-slapping ensued but was soon followed by silence as I tried to put my boots on only to find they were filled with dog food! Travis was blamed for filling my black rubber boots with stinky Purina kibble. At least he was happy to help me empty them again.

That was Larry. A kid himself trapped in a big man’s body.

During the summer, the Ivarsson’s grand kids would come visit for almost a month. One granddaughter, Cassie, was only two years older than me. We had several similarities. We both wore glasses and had vision limitations. Cassie had a glass eye and had to wear an eye patch and goggles when she went swimming in the lake. Nobody wanted her to lose her eye when she’d cannon ball off the dock. We stuck together, even though two years is decades of time when you’re a kid.

We were good friends for those summers.

The Ivarsson’s loved that I was friendly to Cassie. You can imagine she had a hard time making friends in school, anyone who was different always did. She’d come to my house some weekends and we’d go exploring or sleep out on the roof of the chicken house. She taught me how to play badminton and we traded Barbies and doll clothes all the time.

Earlier the previous year, Larry had a mild heart-attack and was bed-ridden for a while. They asked if I wouldn’t visit them for a few months until he was well. However, by the spring of 1983 he was back on his feet and back to telling me to hurry, so I didn’t miss the beginning of Little House.

That awful afternoon I trudged shamefully to their back door, not looking up. I heard him say, “Uh oh…Dolores? I see tears.”

Dolores came to the door, while Larry made himself scarce. I didn’t look at her while I asked if I could use their bathroom.

I went in, finally got the belt loose, took my pants off and tried to air dry them after using a cloth to wash them as best I could. I stayed in there for over half an hour and my pants were still wet. No Little House that day. I was so ashamed to have peed my pants at that age, I couldn’t even face them.

Finally, Dolores knocked. “Jojo, can I help you in there? Is there anything you need?

“Can you call my mom, to come get me now?” I tearfully asked her through the door.

“Sure thing, Sweetpea.”

I put my wet pants back on and threw the belt in the trash in Dolores’s bathroom. I would never wear it again.

When I came back out, I had the coat tied around my waist and the backpack in front of me. I wouldn’t sit on their chairs or couches. Not with those wet pants.

“I’m going to go down and wait on the dock, if that’s okay.”

They both nodded and gave me very worried looks. I walked to the end of their dock and sat on the splintered wood surface waiting for my mom to come across the lake in the small skiff she used to bring me home.

After about ten minutes I heard the slow shuffling footsteps of Larry thundering toward me. He stopped, looked down and awkwardly handed me a Ziploc baggy with my prepared snack of RyeKrisp, cheese and celery sticks.

“Jojo, I don’t know what happened today. But whatever it is — we will never think any less of you. We both think you’re great. Here’s your snack. I hope to see you back in the house tomorrow. I need to know what happens with that mean old Nelly Olsen!”

He wheezed as he put a hand on my shoulder and patted it. I thanked him and watched as he trundled back up the long sloping ramp to the small blue and grey house, they called home.

We moved away the following year, and I never saw Larry and Dolores again.

But I’ve never forgotten those awkward words. He didn’t have anything profound to say. It wasn’t eloquent or full of charm. He didn’t stick around to tell me any stories or anecdotes of when he was a boy.

He was just a big old Angel whose wings were almost used up. His love languages were acts of service and food. And forty years later I still miss him.

Larry’s Pickled Fish recipe

• 5 lbs. fresh raw white fish.
• One gallon container for brine
• Heat in a large stock pot: 1 quart of water, 1 cup kosher salt, 1 quart of white vinegar, 2 Tbsp brown sugar, 2 Tbsp pickling spice, 2 Tbsp mustard seed, 1 tsp of Alum. Bring to a boil, then cool completely.
• Cut fish in bite size pieces. Marinate in the brine 6–8 hours. Rinse, rinse, rinse and dry.
• Pack into pint jars layering fish with lemon slices and fresh onion slices. Add a sliced clove of garlic to each jar.
• Add half a cup of brine and half cup of vinegar back to the packed jars. Just enough to cover the fish.
• Cover and refrigerate two days before use.

Will last in the fridge three months.