Short Stories: Collection

By Jon Van Loon

Short story enthusiasts, this book is for you. It is a collection of my favourite short stories written over a span of approximately 25 years. During this interval I was privileged to live and work in various jurisdictions on 6 continents of the world. Most similarly engaged individuals choose when possible to reside in North American style hotels. This approach prevents experiencing a close association with the local populace. In my case such intermingling was near the head of my wish list. This meant finding locales that were as representative as possible of life in the region and taking up lodgings therein. As the reader might expect living like this, especially in non-English speaking precincts, could provide unexpected challenges but then again these often made for intriguing experiences worth reciting. Here in you will find amusing, informative and thought provoking narratives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Van Loon
• Release date: Jul 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310886188

Jon Van Loon

My life has been complicated by 3 factors. A severe learning disability and a bipolar condition could have easily doomed me to a troubled, non productive existence. However a prodigious unrelenting manic drive was the burr under my saddle that propelled me to unexpected achievement in academia. Of interest here in this regard was that developments in my laboratory at the University of Toronto lead me to opportunities to work, teach and live for short periods in many locations on the 6 continents over a 25 year period. During these intervals, I chose to live in local category accommodation thus maximizing my exposure and participation in parochial experiences. In contrast to the calamitous relationships dogging present world interrelationships my experiences were entirely welcoming and solicitous.I was born in Hamilton Ontario Canada. My interests include jogging and other fitness programs having run in and completed 4 marathons together with numerous 5, 10 and 20 km events. My prowess in sport to say the least was very average. Non-the-less I participated in and then later coached ice hockey both in Canada and Australia. My reward for all this activity is that I have a healthy cardiovascular system and have endured 3 knee replacement operations. Most particularly I have a passion for work related to environmental concerns. In this regard I have 120 peer reviewed research papers in Environmental Chemistry, one of which nearly landing me in jail.

Book preview

Short Story-Collection

By Jon Van Loon

Copyright 2015 Jon Van Loon

Smashwords Edition

Forward

This is a collection of my favourite short stories. They have been chosen to amuse and/or provide an insight into the future of mankind on this planet. The majority have been published scattered here and there among my various existing eBooks. It seemed useful to collect these and present them in one volume for those readers who enjoy the short story format in a book.

I feel justified in so doing because over a span of approximately 25 years I was privileged to live and work in jurisdictions on 6 Continents of the world. This opportunity arose from the nature of my research and teaching as a Professor at the University of Toronto. The work of particular interest was in the field of environmental sciences which at the time had significance to environmental problems in both developed and developing countries; hence my opportunity to travel widely on consulting and speaking engagements.

Fear not because the collection of short stories presented here has little to do with the particulars of research and teaching. They represent mostly amusing incidents that happened both in North America and abroad in the course of my many odysseys.

Most similarly engaged individuals who like me travel and live in a variety of countries worldwide, choose when possible to reside in North American style hotels. This approach prevents experiencing a close association with the local populace.

In my case such intermingling was near the head of my wish list. This meant finding locales in each jurisdiction that were as representative as possible of life in the region and taking up lodgings therein. As the reader might expect living like this, especially in non-English speaking precincts, could provide unexpected challenges but then again these often made for amusing experiences worth reciting.

Although I resided and had consultancies in many foreign jurisdictions worldwide I chose to emphasize stories from Australia, China, Brazil and South Africa to group into separate chapters.

Note: I should inform the reader that I am both learning disabled and bipolar since reference to these problems appears in a few stories.

Chapter 1

Adventures near the Home Front

The Corpse that Went Boating

This true story must be read from the perspective of a 15 year old at which age I abided when this incident occurred.

Working in a general store at a cottage resort was filled with nonstandard activities. A small ‘heirloom’ cedar strip boat with 5 horsepower motor and a 1942 Chevy with trailer hitch and by the way a hole in the driver’s side floor were part of my arsenal. The boat was so old and in such bad repair that it was essential to drop it into the water several days before I arrived for my summers work. This was predicated by the fact that upon hitting the water the boat immediately filled with water and sank to its gunnels. If left this way for 2 or 3 days the cracks between the cedar stripping disappeared as the water swelled each wooden strip. Then upon upending the craft it floated quite happily without any seepage for the duration of the summer. Try that with a modern aluminum boat with a few loose rivets and the water seepage problem would be the continuous no matter the length of soaking. Viva the good old days!

Beyond the in-store toil mostly consisting of serving customers many other diverse daily duties prevailed. Most of these were welcome diversions and provided me opportunities to dilly dally with tasks related to the hauling of blocks of ice for refrigeration, unloading supplies and other welcome out of doors chores.

One fateful morning I arrived at 8 o’clock as usual having walked the 3 miles from cottage to store in my usual carefree manner. However, about 30 m away my daydreaming was rent by an unusual commotion on the stores front porch. I noted that a confusing, tear filled conversation was in progress. What particularly acquired my concerned attention was a black hearse parked nearby. As I made a move to enter the store I felt a quivering hand land on my shoulder. This was followed by the words; we would greatly appreciate your help. I turned to face a familiar elderly woman and her sister, among the best store customers and longtime residents of Blueberry Island some 2 miles distant. Completing this tableau was an undertaker and his youthful entourage. An empty gurney waited in anticipation behind the hearse.

It devolved that the 80 year old husband of one of the sisters had passed away during the night and a quandary existed involving recovery of the body from the cottage and transport from thence to the expectant gurney. Being early in the season few cottagers were about so it came as a shock to learn that I was the only hope to retrieve the body in a timely fashion. This meant maneuvering McMurphies leaky skiff in an air temperature of about 17 degrees centigrade, under grey threatening skies with the wind blowing briskly enough that white caps severed the tops of waves up to 2 feet in height to the island, retrieving the body and then making the even more vexatious return. The elderly wife and her sister were in an unfit state to even accompany me in their boat. The undertaker and his entourage wanted nothing to do with this recovery and stood arms folded refusing to budge. All this was in essence inconsequential since McMurphies boat was too small to safely carry passengers especially after the body was ensconced aboard.

I thought of mimicking the undertaker and his group standing there with my arms crossed refusing to budge but that was not an option. With understandable trepidation I retrieved the McMurphy craft, fired up the motor whence the damn thing started on the first pull as though anxiously anticipating an exciting adventure. Meanwhile the weather was deteriorating, the wind had risen slightly and drops of rain were beginning to spot the front deck. Other than an overriding fear of facing a dead body and all alone, the trip to the island was relatively uneventful. Upon reaching my destination and fastening the conveyance to the resident’s dock I approached the ‘empty’ cottage with reverential terror.

Once inside the ambience took a colossal nosedive. Instead of finding the body in tidy repose upon the couch as promised, I found instead the feet were resting on the floor and the body was precariously balanced between couch and floor. Also rather than confronting the deceased wrapped head to toe in an appropriate fashion the sheet in question had fallen away from the head and I found myself staring into amaurotic wide open eyes. At this point I lost my breakfast with a giant retch that sprayed all and sundry over a 5 foot arc. I slumped into a nearby uncontaminated chair to try to regain some semblance of my sanity.

Viewing the quarry I rigorously posited which angle of approach would be preferable in attempting retrieval. Once in position I abandon my first hypothesis, that of using the sheet as a conveyance in which to pull him along the floor, out the door, down 3 steps, over a narrow flag stone patio, across the lawn, along the dock over the gunnel, then finally depositing the consignment into the bottom of the boat. A quick test showed that the deceased slid too easily free of the sheet. Instead I gingerly trial hefted the bundle and as expected found that due to age and illness there was little but a relatively light content of skin and bones beneath the sheet. Thus after rewrapping the remains completely and attaching the opposing sheet edges together with a few safety pins retrieved from a nearby knitting basket I wrapped my arms around the burden and giving a great heave slung the load over my shoulder. Unfortunately even skin and bones have more than anticipated bulk when balanced precariously on a shoulder. But without further adjustment I made for the door. Kicking the spring loaded screen door open and before it could close made a dash for the pathway. We then had an unfortunate fall. One of the toes of my shoes caught the protruding edge of a patio flagstone. I tore the skin in my hands on the rock and somehow acquired a bleeding nose. Good news, the deceased came through this mishap unscathed.

With the rain now blowing in sheets I was in a rush to finish the job. So disregarding my superficial injuries up went the sheet and contents onto the other shoulder. This seemed a better balance and we made it without further incident all the way to the boat. Here I stood wringing wet viewing the inside of a boat thrashing violently on its moorings. How to achieve the cargos dismount decorously into the craft? That’s really not true. By now I was not thinking in a very respectful mode. I bet you thought that during the dismount the sheet and its contents would end up in the water? Although the dismount was perfect a water destination would probably have been preferable since I was now starring at a sopping wet bloodied (from my bleeding nose and other wounds) bundle residing in the perfect position in the bottom of the boat. I thought about explaining how a body already half stiff with rigor mortis appeared to have been bleeding so profusely in the sheets.

I probably should leave the tale at this juncture. You probably don’t really want to hear the escape of the body, a tangle of weeds and a swim to preserve my own life. So the next section from island dock to shore is added just for completeness.

For the first 100 m the island sheltered us from the worst of the wind and its consequences but I detected an ominous whistling gaining shrillness from the wind in the retreating island’s tall standing pines. When we broke free from the island’s protection the rain and the wind was indeed increasing in velocity and had switched direction to come directly out of the north. This meant that to reach shore the little boat would have to wallow sideways over the peaks and down into the troughs of the mounding waves. The now beleaguered, unsecured bundle was rolling about a meter side to side in the bottom of the craft, the destabilizing effect threatening to cause spates of water to flow over the gunnels. Attempting to halt this danger, still seated I tried to lift both feet simultaneously onto the body and promptly lost my balance. A few seconds later a large wave rolled me over the side and into the water. As I sputtered around without a life jacket (this was the 1940’s) I could see the little boat bouncing up and down, but running guided by wave action in a direct course for the shore, which in due time it arrived with only the dead occupant aboard. Meanwhile I had become caught up in the weeds that bordered this area and although a good swimmer I was fighting to release myself from this hazard hampered by churning waves and lungs half full of water. After what seemed to be a very prolonged struggle a fisherman in his boat casually on the way towards the shore sighted me. While pulling me onboard his large boat he berated me for being out here swimming alone on such a hazardous day! I didn’t even attempt an explanation.

When we debarked on shore the gurney having received its cargo was presumably safely stowed in the hearse and this vehicle was probably half way to town. The grieving wife and sister had apparently gone in the family car to follow their loved one to the funeral home. Mrs. McMurphy had already assumed her usual position within the store and was patiently awaiting my return.

Rural Ontario in the 1940’s was admittedly a little backward but did it not occur to anyone that the boat having arrived with only the deceased aboard meant that something was awry? At least no one questioned me about the bloodied condition of the cargo nor was I ever thanked for my tribulations.

Uncle Samuel

The Late cosmologist/mathematician and Fellow of Trinity College Cambridge, Sir James Hopwood Jeans, lived ‘here’. Well at least his spirit dominated these environs. ‘Here’, was Jocks bedroom, a 6 m long 3 m wide half-moon cross sectional building rising to 2 m at the apogee standing next to the family cottage. Officially called a Quonset hut, the inside ceilings were papered in a semi-circular, floor to ceiling pattern with enlarged photos from Sir James famous 1931 monograph Stars in Their Courses.

Jock was unusually intellectually proficient for a mid-teen. He was besot with solving mathematical and cosmological puzzles instead of chasing girls and doing other mischief common amongst his raging hormone plagued counterparts.

Lying on our backs on Jock’s bed in his quarters, sequestered indoors on a rainy summer’s afternoon, Jock verbalized in nauseating detail about the now erroneous ‘Steady State cosmology’ concept, since preempted by the ‘Big Bang’ theory, that formed the basis of Sir James’ cosmological research. In illustration of this diatribe Jock’s 1.5 m long pointer was in constant motion tracing complex patterns on the star crossed ceiling. Now and again sensing that I might have let my mind wander from his discourse, the pointers butt would painfully find the side of my head. Worse, when reaching a particularly auspicious point he would ask me a related question the response to which I normally trashed. The result was that with disgust and a vituperative reprimand I was bawled from the premises out into the downpour.

With the exception of Jock, his father, a cousin and an aunt whose names slip my mind, Jocks entire family was composed of heavy drinkers. Then there was his Uncle Samuel the full blown binge drinking alcoholic pest. During the week days he was Dr. Samuel a respected Guelph Ontario dentist. However come weekends and holidays at his nearby cottage the bottle seldom left his precincts with predictable results. Jock was his favourite nephew and if he caught Jock and me unawares kept us busy catching baby frogs for his frequent fishing jaunts. Also as might be expected Uncle Samuel drunkenly mismanaged his boat, motor, fishing and related equipment. Jock being a young man of mechanical talents paralleling his prodigious scientific capabilities was often high-jacked to affect any necessary repairs. All that being said Jock and I kept on constant alert to avoid Uncle Samuel aided by a complex system of mirrors Jock had ingeniously hidden in the cedars by the roadway. Thereby we could view the road from almost any spot on Jock’s property making it possible to attempt an escape before his uncle’s fateful arrival.

Related to Uncle Samuel’s states of constant navigational incapacity, Jock was frequently sent to execute his retrieval form some area on the lake where Uncle Samuel and his boat load of usually distantly related, all female companions, had meandered onto distant rocks.

On one such occasion I had been coerced into providing Jock with accompaniment and without his intellectual prowess might never have set foot on dry land again. The report we received from a passing boater who had coincidentally rescued all the ladies, was that Uncle Samuel had not only become entangled on some rocks but because of the speed of impact he was perched high up on the shoal and had badly damaged his motor.

For an operation like this we took Jock’s 18 ft. double stratified sturdy plywood craft with his Martin 3.8 and my Johnston 5 horse power motors clamped firmly side by side on the broad transom. The weather had a hint of je ne sais quoi, a state when conditions could change suddenly and without warning. With the directions we received the rescue would be in an area beyond the normal confines of the immediate inshore bay. In other words we were headed out westerly to an area of open Lake Huron waters 2 to 3 km from our anchorage and then would jog a bit to the north. The wind was light from the NE creating only minor rippled waves and the atmosphere was heavy with moisture. As the shore slipped away our attention was focused forward toward the channel between shoals through which we needed to navigate to reach the open water before attempting to intersect the disaster site. Both motors were running at full cry with an agonizing beating resonance noise typical of the fact that these units were mismatched in horse power sending the underpowered Martin periodically into cavitation as result of being dragged forward at excessive speed by the larger motor. Yet this under powered device always dug back in with reassurance that gave a sense of the power we knew we would require to drag Uncle Samuel’s massive cedar strip boat from its rocky throne.

It was sudden and the effect was not unlike a descending impervious grey sheet falling over our craft and the surrounding area. Without warning we were entombed in one of those fogs that sometimes roll in suddenly over large bodies of open water.

Well no problem, just drop the anchor and wait this episode out; which in fact I was quick to accomplish from my seat at the bow. Trouble was that the anchor took the plunge and after a few seconds the rope zinged like a violin string. We were in such deep water our usually faithful grapnel remained suspended in space who knows how far above the lake bottom. We killed the motors to prevent misdirected navigation. As is often the case under these weather conditions the wind had died and the breath that remained was from offshore. What was more disconcerting were the out flowing, seiche generated, currents. This combined effect had the consequence of transporting us slowly but relentlessly further into the open lake. It was about 1pm in the afternoon when this disaster struck and by 8:30pm when dusk began to devolve and we still remained fog bound, I began to despair. Jock on the other hand remained remarkably calm.

Fogs generally lift when the sun sets and cool air currents rising from the waters provide a dispersing effect. Such was the case about 30 minutes later. At this point we must have been miles from the now distant invisible shore with at least in my mind no idea in which direction to travel. We had plenty of gas in a spare tank and in any case these small motors were very fuel efficient. As I began to launch into an extravagantly pessimistic diatribe about our fate Jock’s face broke into a grin which developed into a disquieting laugh. The guy had obviously deteriorated into a state lunacy. As if to put an exclamation point on this point he stated; Thank God it is nighttime because in daylight disaster could be inevitable. What for me really nailed down the full depth of his chronic mental discombobulation was when he asked if on the way back we should just pop along and recover Uncle Samuel! My negative response was unprintable.

It is important to stress that this being the 1940’s no cell phones or other means of wireless communications available to pull from one’s pocket. Additionally GPS was decades in the future and shortwave radios were not part of a small crafts gear. Of course we could have carried a compass and a flashlight but who ever thought to bother with such a devices for normal daytime recreational near shore boating.

Sir James Jeans to the rescue, Jock vociferously proclaimed. With that proclamation my eyes drifted up to the now cloudless half-moon and star filled heavens and immediately a perfect replica of a small section of the ceiling in Jock’s Quonset hut emerged. With provoking certainty Jock reoriented our craft and began our return. Of course I was treated to the usual expansive diatribe that embalmed me on those many rainy days lying on our backs on Jock’s bed staring at the cosmic panorama on his ceiling. Yet this time his words were less nauseating and my mind did not wander. We motored for what seemed like hours when suddenly a familiar headland loomed out of the darkness. There she be, Chirt’s Point just as estimated; Jock unnecessarily affirmed. After another navigational adjustment and about 20 minutes later there silhouetted in the moonlight on the rocks waving and shouting in a vehement fashion was Uncle Samuel.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. No one had attempted his rescue because of the fog and the subsequent onset of darkness. Uncle Samuel had obviously some time ago run out of booze and hence it was our only encounter with the good Doctor in a state of full blown sobriety. Nor was the rescue procedure to be a happy experience. While we struggled to effect the crafts retrieval without Uncle Samuel’s assistance this good gentleman felt it propitious to launch into an obstreperous cannonade of frustrated invective both at us and the other local deadheads who he posited had left him there to …. rot.

That night as I slumbered I dreamed of a world free of Uncle Samuel and his self-inflicted fiascos. But mostly I gave thanks for Sir James Hopwood Jeans and his most devoted disciple, Jock.

Mr. Raun

Note: At age 40 I was tested and found to have a relatively severe learning disability. My visual memory was found to reside in the 40th percentile of the population. At the time of this story this factor was unknown but accounts for the problems recounted in the following 2 stories.

‘How well I remember her caustic comments as time and time again I made errors in the simplest tasks. It became so frustrating that I was often unable to concentrate and found myself idly gazing at sparrows flying to and from their hiding places in the ivy vines outside her window’.

My parents, in their wisdom and generosity, had arranged tutoring sessions in French. Twice a week for one hour each time, I went to intensive French lessons in the musty home of a matronly, retired, French teacher. To have tutoring in the 1940s and 1950s was to admit to the world how stupid you really were. Only a imbecile needed tutoring in those days. Fortunately, although this is still somewhat the case today, we are now much more enlightened and tutoring is not nearly the black mark it used to be. How could they squeeze four classes down to two? This serious dilemma, faced by the high school administration, became evident during my tenure in Grade 12. There were four academic Grade 12 classes but only two for Grade 13. There was natural attrition, but this would eliminate at most a few percent. So a problem still existed. The brain trust of the administration at that time