Short Stories For Tall Tales

By Carl Watson

Each short story is complete within itself. The terse captivating writing presents stories in short form without the length needed in the novel format to accomplish the same result. The stories are based on truths, past memories, embellishments and fictional events all subject to the writers wide ranging creativity.Character depiction is varied as to social and economic status ,race and ethnicity. It addresses their rise or fall within the scope of their involvement in the stories plot. Liberty has been taken with the names of a few characters . Whimsical or farcical names do not detract from the aim or emotions of the stories. Reading the stories is addictive ,prompting the reader to begin the next one as soon as the previous one has been read. Any connection or allusion to living of living persons or real events is unintentional and features the range of emotions including deception and criminality exhibited by some and present in many.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886547788

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Short Stories For Tall Tales

Carl Watson

Copyright © 2022 Carl Watson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 979-8-88654-773-3 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-778-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Jamaica, 1962

The Tent Meeting

The Promise

The Gift: Part I

The Gift: Part II

The Seeds' Misdeeds

From Need to Greed

Let Bygones Be

Pharaoh's Tomb

Pharaoh's Tomb, Bank Scenario

The Corporation

From Backstreet to Wall Street

The Homecoming

Bigotry

Reversal of Fortunes

The Miscreant

Retribution

The Savior

The Runaway

Sauna

The Apple Corps

Open Sesame

Equal Justice

Splitting Heirs

Mister

The Poker Game

The Lottery

About the Author

Jamaica, 1962

The plane trip from Miami to Jamaica was unique and memorable. There were no engine problems, sudden frightening descents, or conditions threatening life or limb. The British West Indies airplane was totally empty except for the two of us—myself and my medical student classmate Pat Serey. Our coach seats were immediately changed to first class by the two attractive Jamaican stewardesses who were attentive to a fault, having nothing else to do. When the plane landed at the Kingston Airport, our once-in-a-lifetime experience began.

As a sophomore medical school course in public health (community medicine), the entire class members were distributed to separate, designated communities throughout Kentucky, charged with the task of delving in depth the health status of those communities, including their problems; medical resources consisting of human providers, hospitals, nursing homes, and mental health facilities; and any situation, economic or otherwise, that had an impact on community health. This search included improbable sources, such as animal control. This course also involved engaging a family within the target community for health assessment. The first chairman of the department was Dr. Kurt Deuschle, who was called the father of community medicine in the US and who developed novel approaches to medical education. Public health (community medicine) was chosen as an elective course. A student was sent to Uganda, but we viewed the Jamaica assignment as the plum.

Our charge was to utilize our newly learned investigative skills in this tropical setting. We were met at the airport in midevening and quickly transported to the University of the West Indies. Upon arrival, refreshments were given, after which we were registered into the university. Recognizing our fatigue and jet lag, we were shown to our accommodations.

* * *

Upon awaking in the morning, what hadn't been seen in the darkness of night was visually overwhelming in daylight. In 1962, the campus was small as universities went but magnificently beautiful, nestled unobtrusively in its tropical setting. No building, including the med center hospital, was taller than two or three stories. Lining the entrance road to the university were equally spaced, multicolored, fluttering flags representing all the participating Caribbean islands. A relic of a partial aqueduct remained as a reminder of Jamaica's sugarcane and rum industries past and present. The senses were awakened and challenged by the island's aroma, which was tropically vegetal with floral hints. Although tropical trees were dominant, from a distance, the terrain appeared to be carpeted in green velvet.

We were initially placed in an undergraduate dormitory, the students of which thought that we should be subjected to freshman hazing while pretending to be playfully unaware of our status. Our reaction to and rejection of this absurdity was quickly corrected, and single, individual rooms were provided in the medical registrar (residents') housing. A brilliant Chinese Jamaican medical student named Ernest Wong was given the charge of easing our entry into island life as to the where, the what, and the how. He was also Jamaica's junior tennis champion, whose family owned a Montego Bay Chinese restaurant. (Later, during our stay, we dined there, and hospitality destined us to stay the night, over at the restaurant, subjected to hours of Chinese music.) We arrived in Jamaica in 1962, the year independence from England was obtained. Some remaining holdover from British institutions had not yet been changed. The monetary system continued the use of pounds, shillings, and pence until the Jamaican dollar was introduced, making purchases at the small Papine village store awkward.

After orientation of two days, our different and separate missions were about to begin. On the campus was a relatively new building, Jamaica's CDC (Center for Disease Control). At the time, there were two or more international researchers in academic residence. One was Chilean, whose field of inquiry at this time was not known or remembered. In the evenings after work, he seemed to always want to engage in political discussions. My connection at the CDC was with Dr. Edward Kass, a Harvard doctor who was researching asymptomatic bacteriuria in pregnant women. His research would take him daily to a small mountain community named Lawrence Tavern. His assistants included a young Chinese Jamaican woman (ethnically Chinese, born in Jamaica), a young man from Barbados, and Jeanie, a young woman from Boston. She also had the use of a VW Beetle, which played an important part in our experience. She remained at the CDC daily, not traveling to Lawrence Tavern.

I began accompanying this crew on weekdays into the interior of Jamaica. In 1962, the town was merely a wide place by the road. Each morning, we climbed into Dr. Kass's Citroën for the trip. At one of the wide places several yards from the roadway was a small clinic, the doctor's office, which was manned by a physician whose daily patient load often numbered more than eighty clients. They would wait patiently, without complaints about time or delay of services. Some of these patients were pregnant and a part of Dr. Kass's study. My contribution involved limited examinations, vital sign determinations, and venipunctures when needed. The obviously busy doctor also shared medical information and diagnoses when appropriate. I witnessed sickle cell crises among other things more mundane. Patients with conditions not amenable to outpatient care were transported to the university hospital. Anecdotally, the incidence of esophageal and stomach cancer seemed high, especially among men.

As a part of maternal and infant care services, a nurse or health-care worker conducted periodic home checks on the community's pregnant women, offering them advice and giving them instructions. They carried scales with which to weigh newborns, whose progress, or lack thereof, was noted and recorded, and advice was given to the mothers if indicated. The health worker was physically fit for the job, either genetically determined or due to her negotiating the challenging, hilly terrain.

Upon return to the university in the afternoons, showers removed the dust acquired from traveling; and as was the retained British custom, teatime was observed with tea or fresh Jamaican fruit punch, light sandwiches, and cheese. This relaxing time was used to share our various individual experiences and activities of the day. Evenings after dinner were used for reading, study, and occasionally, accepting invitations to homes of university-associated staff or faculty. Nighttimes were particularly enchanting. The few dim lights of distant hillside homes barely illuminated anything, and the smells of the tropics were persistent reminders of place. Faint, musical sounds of reggae music from steel drums seemed to come from everywhere and from nowhere in particular, just music in the air.

Mosquitoes challenged or interrupted otherwise peaceful sleep. Particularly disconcerting was hearing their high-pitched sound nearby and then silence, then knowing that you had been chosen for a meal. As a deterrent, smoke-producing devices were used. These pinwheel-shaped green devices were lit. Although there was no flame, they burned and smoldered in a decreasingly circular pattern toward the center. The smoke emitted was supposedly a mosquito deterrent. The mosquitoes apparently did not agree. An effective solution was simple. If a mosquito was heard, turning on the light prompted the insect to land on the nearest vertical wall. By looking at the wall—not straight on but parallel to its surface—the small mosquito could be seen slightly raised from the surface, ready for swatting extermination.

Jeanie, with her VW, became our constant off-duty friend and companion. Weekend excursions found us visiting historic sites, such as Spanish Town, Port Royal, Fern Gully, Port Antonio, and Montego Bay, and side trips to nowhere in particular. Our adventures often led us into precarious situations. A mountainous trip to Blue Mountain Inn (of coffee fame) involved seven miles of winding, unmarked roads. This planned trip was anticipated with high expectations of fun and adventure. It was the adventure that was remembered, not the fun. Our carefree jubilation came to an end when the one-lane road up the mountain abruptly became impassable. The rains and rushing water from recently visited Hurricane Flora had loosened rocks and soil, causing a landslide to block the road ahead. Our only viable option was to retreat, retracing our path down the mountainside.

After a hundred yards of descent, nature repeated its cruel joke by causing a second slide, effectively entrapping us between. In the blackness of the moonless night, our only light was a flashlight. Leaving the car between the slides, we scrambled over the blockade and began our trek by foot back to civilization. I was not aware of prayers being said, but a savior arrived, obviously not trapped by slides, driving an old Mercedes, who offered us a ride. With relief and many thanks of gratitude, we climbed in. Beneath our feet, on the back seat floor, lay a calf. Fortunately, it did not protest by moving or mooing. One member of our group was especially grateful—because of her position as chief registrar (resident) in pediatrics, her nonattendance for rounds and call duty would not have been well-received. We never attempted the Blue Mountain trip again. As the song Blame It on Our Youth went, we learned little from the Blue Mountain experience. In our defense, to be cowed by nature's unexpected occurrences in this paradise would have relegated us to inactivity and missing experiences of a lifetime.

We heard that some frequently traveled roads were underwater from heavy tropical rains. On a weekend trip to the north coast and Port Antonio, we chose to return to our university base via interior roads. This was a choice we regretted. The uninhabited Jamaican countryside at night had no illumination if the moon was obscured by clouds or haze. Such was the case on that fateful night.

The initial part of the journey was uneventful until we came to an uh-oh moment. Waters coursing down the mountainside had crossed a small section of roadway, washing away rocks and soil from its surface, creating a void with a depth not easily determined. The rushing water after crossing the narrow road continued into the darkness below, ending with a frighteningly far-too-distant sound. We had no other option but to proceed. The remedy we chose might not have been structurally adequate, but in our minds, something had to be done. Leaving the car lights on and the engine idling, we got out of the car and tossed all manageable, available rocks into the water-filled hole to build up the roadbed. We then returned to the car, gunned the engine, and sped over the gap. Feeling flushed with success, little did we know that we had to repeat this one more time that night in an identical situation. The third and last decision that night at last utilized our collective intelligence when we decided not to cross a gorge spanned by a railroad track.

Leprosy (Hansen's disease) was virtually nonexistent in the Western world. There are now cures for the disease, but in 1962, there were leper colonies around the world, including the US (Carville, Louisiana, and Molokai, Hawaii). The educational experience in Jamaica afforded me the unique opportunity to see actual patients with the condition as opposed to reading text or viewing photographs. One of our weekend excursions took us to St. Andrew Parish and, unexpectedly, to Hansen House, one of Jamaica's leprosariums. This housing and treatment center was managed by a nun originally from Cincinnati, Ohio. The patients (inhabitants) included men, women, and children of varying ages. The condition was present in all its expressions—from having no visual signs of disease, to irregular skin discoloration patterns, and to the most recognized disfiguring leonine, bulbous facial lesions and hand deformities with missing fingers. Hopefully, no other individual would experience the ravages of this disease, and no other physician would see or have to treat it. It was probable that fewer than 1 percent of US physicians had seen cases. It was destined to have the same fate as smallpox: total eradication.

Because of the newness of the medical school, permanent faculty members were constantly being added. In the interim, outstanding experts in various disciplines were engaged temporarily to teach necessary courses. One such professor was Dr. Harold Brown, recognized as a world-renowned parasitologist from Columbia University Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons and an expert in tropical diseases with doctoral degrees in science, health, and medicine. He brought with him his treasure trove of microscopic slides and specimens. This was one of my favorite courses. This information is mentioned because the knowledge gained from his teaching was utilized within months in Jamaica. One of my studies involved the health of children in August Town, a small community near the university. I performed limited examinations on young children and examined microscopically stool samples for ova and parasites. The samples were retrieved and brought in by mothers (thank goodness). The information gained in this parasitology course continued to be useful in latter stages of my medical career. Accompanying university and CDC staffs, an outbreak of scarlet fever was investigated.

Avoiding more high-risk exposure, Pat, Jean, and I chose visiting non-life-threatening sites, such as Caymanas Park, Jamaica's only racetrack. To reach the track, a picturesque drive coursed through sugarcane fields and banana groves. At the track, we witnessed a Kentucky racing no-no: one horse ran twice the same day. On our list of places to visit were the obvious destinations: Port Royal, the corrupt pirates' den of old; Hope Botanical Gardens of Hope Diamond lore, a mini version of the Butchart Gardens; Ocho Rios; Fern Gully; and the unrestored ruins of Rose Hall. (Picking at the crumbling mortar revealed hair from slaves of Annie Palmer that was used as a binder.)

Island aromas could be compared or contrasted to the nose and flavors of fine wines that might have hints of blackberries, vanilla, cinnamon, etc., although those substances were not chemically present. Island aromas were complex with the presence of existing substances that were earthy, vegetal, floral, fruity, and musty and were intensified and refreshed by short afternoon rain showers.

Change and improvements in living conditions were hoped for and had occurred. Since the 1960s, small villages had morphed into towns and cities with high-rise dwellings, office buildings, hotels, restaurants, and well-equipped schools. One must now search for the once-ubiquitous stands selling meat patties and Red Stripe beer. Narrow, one-lane roads had widened into multilanes. The university now had satellite campus sites and departments across the country to accommodate its 23,000 students. Adjacent towns expanded laterally to engulf one another and merge into a single larger entity.

Tourism continued to be the island's economic base. When megasized luxury liners docked and planes landed, hordes of pleasure-seeking vacationers were disgorged, hoping to experience the famed island's offerings—its nature, food, music, and culture. The night prior to docking, Jamaican cuisine was provided by the ship's chefs, attempting to replicate the island's flavors. The Taste of Jamaica night aboard ship was an attempt to put the voyagers in an island mood. A few men wore white suits while others sported Hawaiian shirts, not realizing the difference, and neither did some women in muumuus. Entertainment was provided by an authentic four-man combo with exceptional steel drum skills. They were dressed in tropical clothes and flanked by fake palm trees. Fruit punch was enjoyed by all. The lead singer admitted he was going home when the ship docked in the morning.

When the tourists' feet touched land in the morning, the heady aroma of the air, redolent with herbal, vegetal, and floral scents, was obscured and overwhelmed by the diesel fuel smells from the idling, waiting megasized tour buses and exhaust fumes from waiting taxis. Lines were formed, and the tourists were shepherded into the buses like grade school children. Those lucky to be the first ones in line occupied front and window seats while others took the aisle seats, and the most unfortunate were relegated to the back bench. From three-by-three-feet tinted glass windows, Jamaica was to be viewed and questionably enjoyed.

An on-bus tour guide feigned enthusiasm as she (usually) described the sites to be observed. You are passing through Ocho Rios. You have just passed Dunn's River Falls, one of Jamaica's most visited and photographed sites. How many of you remember Dr. No? You are now passing through Fern Gully, where picking any vegetation is punishable by law. She continued with, You will pass by Doctor's Cave Beach, the largest and most beautiful on the island. Other sites of historical importance are merely alluded to but not seen or visited. Rose Hall is in the distance. You can see it from here.

Heads turned to peer through the windows, but the Hall was not visible from one side of the bus, and certainly not from the rear bench seat. The tour bus made the obligatory stop at a small souvenir and trinket shop, where straw totes and decorated handbags could be bought, taken home, and never seen again. Mass-produced, real Jamaican art could be purchased. As in other countries, the guide received a monetary share of any sale made during the stop. The island tour ended with the tourists returning to the assembly/collection area. Some offered the guide welcomed tips. No one truly experienced the island.

Fortunately, my memory of Jamaica from 1962 remains essentially intact and can be recalled in exquisite detail in some situations. Because of my age, my short three-month stay affords memories of past conditions unknown to many native islanders. Currently, most beaches and beach accesses cannot be utilized by native inhabitants. Resort hotels now own the beaches and limit access only to its paying guests, denying locals access to their past and their history and treating them like trespassers in their own country.

On several returns to the island with 1962 memories firmly ensconced in my mind and with hopes of recapturing the feeling by sight, sound, and smell, disappointment by reality was cruel. I also had the tourist experience of assault by diesel and auto exhaust fumes and the tour guide's cursory explanation of quickly-passed sites not seen through bus windows and back seats. I endured the guide's brief description of world-famous sites and felt sorry that the tourist strangers did not experience what I knew was present, and they did not even know it.

Pat, my classmate, and our friend Jean found each other in Jamaica, and a marriage of sixty years endured. For me, however, with only pleasant memories remaining, an island revisit was improbable. In this regard, I must say, Jamaica, farewell.

The Tent Meeting

It was summertime in the South, when days and nights could be oppressive with stifling heat and with high humidity, the moisture content approaching the threshold for precipitation. Despite the heat, this was Tent Meeting time of the year, between the unpredictable, rainy springtime and the likewise unpredictable fall. This time of year, triggered and set into motion were nature's wonders and creatures' instincts. At sunset, fireflies (lightning bugs) took flight, intermittently illuminating the darkness with flashes of light, in search of mating partners and simultaneously enchanting and mesmerizing young children, who attempted to capture them in mason jars. Crickets likewise added to the wonder by creating a cacophony of rasping sounds with genetically engineered legs specifically designed to attract mates and simultaneously warning and deterring rival suitors.

Under these circumstances, the Tent Meeting season began. In the span of twenty-four hours, a vacant lot was mowed, cleared, and transformed into a space suddenly occupied by a plain, dun-colored, unadorned tent. Tents for Blacks (colored people) were understandably erected in urban communities of color by necessity and perhaps to take advantage of pedestrian accessibility and bus routes as well as to recognize limited automobile ownership. These segregated enclaves of Black existence often bore the names of the original White landowners, such as Taylor Town, Jim Town, Smith Town, and Prall Town.

The tent was illuminated by strings of 60-watt light bulbs inside and looping strings of 100-watt bulbs around the periphery. Squadrons of moths of varying sizes and species were attracted to the lights but were seemingly undeterred and unfazed by the emitted heat. Tent Meeting attendees occupying the first rows of folding wooden chairs were usually members of the host church and consisted primarily of portly middle-aged and older women in thin cotton summer dresses. Brows and bosoms bore beads of sweat not evaporating in the moisture-laden air, but despite the heat, some wore hats—not mandated but perhaps to observe self-imposed, conventional church protocol. Men were in the minority. Those present consisted of a few spouses, deacons, and several devout members identified by their repetitious, sermon-long amens. In absentia were teenagers who had other midsummer desires and destinations and, unlike their parents or elders, not fearful of their mortality and the afterlife.

The ample size of many of the worshippers challenged the structural integrity of the well-used, often unstable, rickety chairs. These chairs were veterans of many funerals, weddings, and graduations. Many chairs had been retired from active duty, having served admirably in upholding the rears of the weary. Fortunately, no one suffered the indignity of wood failure of the remaining survivors. On each chair, a paper fan had been placed. These were universally recognized fans with a flat, scallop-edged, ergonomic wooden handle. The front side bore the image of a White Jesus while the back side had Black funeral home advertisements. These fans were instruments of dual purpose and necessity; their usage created a small current of air in the breezeless night and temporarily shooed away dive-bombing, persistent, hungry, blood-sucking mosquitoes in search of vulnerable necks, arms, and legs.

Strangely, not in evidence were relief facilities. Porta-potties or their equivalent was not seen. There were no surrounding trees or bushes behind which they could have been placed. Nearby homeowners certainly would not have allowed strangers in any number or state of urgency the use of their bathrooms. Few, if any, public buildings existed nearby. An urgent call of nature required a quick, immediate response and must not be subjected to delay or equivocation, but no mention of this indelicate subject and the availability of resources came from the pulpit. The enigma persisted. Of equal significance was that despite the heat, no drinking water source was seen but was hopefully present.

Members of mainstream denominations—Baptists, Methodists, Catholics, and Episcopalians—by and large did not attend the Tent Meeting. The prevailing impression was one of believed class superiority. This attitude existed even though economic differences in this segregated Black society were marginal. A few entrepreneurs and professionals escaped economically, but they could not escape rigid housing restrictions, which destined them to live in segregated Black communities. Although living conditions were physically close, by a street city block or two, attitudinal and class differences in thought and practice were miles apart.

Snobbery over the religion-based cultural divide was present. One contentious point involved the role that music played in religious services. While one side held to the concept of making a joyful noise, the other thought the use of band instruments, such as horns and drums, in a sedate place of worship seemed out of place and impermissible. Although the ultimate religious message might have been the same, the emotional fervor of delivery, the near-jazz music, the jazz influence, and the use of drums, horns, and the like were off-putting to some. The instrument of choice was the electronic organ. The accomplished instrumentalists might have been formally trained or not. The most prominent feature that set the organ apart from the piano in this setting was its ability to sustain a note or chord interminably. The church organist often used the instrument as a second musical voice, musically repeating what the preacher said, using the organ in a call-and-response dialogue, adding well-timed musical amens to his words. These talented musicians were seen performing for true jazz aficionados on electronic keyboards at local nightclub venues, such as the Elk Club, Cotton Club, and the VFW.

The primary participant of the meeting was a local Pentecostal minister, who in this case was also the minister of the Tent-sponsoring church, unlike some churches that contracted with out-of-town, professional-touring evangelists for the tent season, which was scheduled months in advance. Many ministers of certain denominations were self-ordained and