AT THE CORNER OF WHO-KNOWS-WHAT & WHEREVER

By Randy Haglund

“Shut the door! Were ya’ born in a barn?”

Many a mother has shouted those words, I’m told. My mother almost never yelled, (even though I deserved it), but I don’t recall her ever saying those words. It may be because she was self-conscious about her unusual birth-place.

According to her birth certificate, Ruth Wanda Olson was born on January 21, 1926 at Saint Luke’s hospital, where Doctor E.R. Northrup signed the document as attending physician.

But if you believe that, you need to hear…The Rest of the Story.[i]

Today a parking lot exists on the east 3000 block of Queen Avenue in Spokane right across the street from the Northeast Youth Center. But in 1926 the house of my grandparents, John and Helen Olson stood where that parking lot is now.  John worked as a switchman at the Great Northern Yards less than two blocks away. Helen was a stay-at-home mom. (Was there another kind of mom back then?)

On a cold Thursday afternoon in January, Helen realized it was time. If anyone would know, it was her, having already given birth to six children. Her fifteen-year-old son, Charles, was due home at any moment from school, and she would send him to get John at work so they could go to the hospital. Neither John nor Helen ever owned a car. She would send for a taxi as soon as Charles went to get her husband.

Meanwhile, she waited.

But Charles’ arrival lagged. Of all days to be dilly-dallying, this was not it. Hillyard High School, located just three blocks away on North Regal, had been out for some time. What could be the delay? Her anxiety level was about to go through the roof when he finally arrived. Wasting no time, she dispatched him immediately to go fetch John and then called for a taxi.

A few minutes later, the cab arrived, but John didn’t.  It should’ve only taken about five minutes for Charles to run across Market Street to the Great Northern Yard and bring dad home.

There is disagreement about the reason for Charles’ delay.  Some family members believe he couldn’t find his dad.  The immense yard in Hillyard always had numerous trains present, and one’s vision could be seriously obstructed.  Or John could’ve been in the roundhouse, the machine shop, or one of the other buildings in the yard.

The prevailing theory, however, is that the young teen simply got distracted.  Not absorbing the gravity of the situation, he could have easily been enticed by a myriad of delights on Market Street.  There was ice cream at the Benewah Creamery, and candy at the Hillyard Pharmacy.  There were all kinds of novelties at J. C. Penney or Kehoe Hardware, or any other number of diversions to entice an adolescent on Hillyard’s main arterial.  It’s possible Charles ran into a friend, or maybe even a girl.

Helen tapped her foot and looked down the street, but there was no sign of John or Charles.

Time for plan B.

Margaret, her twelve-year old daughter would have to ride with her. Time was of the essence. The two got into the waiting taxi and headed for Saint Luke’s Hospital, about seven miles away at the west end of Broadway.

About halfway to the hospital, and now in anguish, Helen told the cabby to stop the car.

Now.

You can imagine the angst of the driver, who could not have anticipated this turn of events.  But at the insistence of Helen, he had no alternative but to pull over. While three inches of fresh snow blanketed the ground, Helen noticed a policeman standing on a corner nearby. She sent Margaret to inform him of her condition.

Assessing the situation, the officer produced a pocket knife which he used to split open Helen’s bloomers, the last obstacle barring the baby’s passage.

The first breath Ruth Olson took came from the back seat of a taxi.

Did the driver leave the meter running? Did he charge for the extra passenger? We’ll never know.

We only know that after the main event, he continued on to Saint Luke’s Hospital, where mother and baby arrived together… yet separately.  There, Dr. E. R. Northrup took credit on the birth certificate as the attending physician.

But we know better.

Because at the corner of Who-Knows-What Avenue and Wherever Street a police officer did more than just his job. Taking time out from his other duties, he served as a midwife, and for that I’m grateful. For I am a direct descendant of his courage and dedication to serve. With no training in obstetrics, he nevertheless did what needed to be done.  His name will forever be shrouded in anonymity, but the real attending physician at Ruth Olson’s birth was not an M.D., but one of Spokane’s men in blue.

And now you know… The Rest of the Story.

Good day!

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[i] Apologies to Paul Harvey, whose format I have stolen for this original story.

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