 
# Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird and other Chronicles

# By Jon Van Loon

# Copyright Jon Van Loon 2014

# Smashwords Edition

# Chapter 1

# The Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird

Catastrophe hit one wet December evening. A woman passerby was traumatized to discover a badly mangled body lying splayed in a blood covered, dirty, snow bank adjacent to a seldom used walkway behind the Carlaw Bloor-Danforth subway station. Her anguished screams brought a concerned young man who promptly called 911 to report the incident. Then as a small token of comfort he guided her away from the scene and helped her back into to station to wait for the authority's arrival.

Professor/Dr. Boson Ion was rushing from the lab to catch his train home. Despite his tardiness Boson meticulously gathered up his laboratory book and assorted notes containing all our key results and stuffed these into his brief case which accompanied him home. Boson seemed to have some strange fixation that it was crucially important without fail to catch the 5:45pm train from nearby Mount Joy station, a fact I failed to understand since trains ran from this station every 15 minutes. Although being about 5 minutes late in departing the laboratory it was clear from police enquiries of other passenger/acquaintances that he had caught his usual train. In addition about 6:00pm he had disembarked as usual at Carlaw station for the 500m walk to his home on Darlington Cres. He never reached his destination.

Professor/Dr. Boson Ion (please call me Boson) was without question the most innovative and talented researcher in the field of Cold Laser Physics. In fact his work alone had transformed a relatively obscure University/Government laboratory in Sydney Australia into a world renowned facility. On the other hand his physical appearance and self-effacing manner belied this elevated stature in his field. Boson Ion was of short stature and wiry build. He had a pleasant but not particularly handsome face. Of special note he walked quietly in quick hurried steps with the often disturbing result that he seemed to appear beside a person of his interest, suddenly and without audible warning.

My own research on Quantum Computing was facing serious pitfalls that dictated a radically fresh approach to data detection. Cold laser technology was my choice as the next direction that should be investigated. The field of Quantum Computing research was peopled by many of the most highly regarded researchers around the world. This is because such a device if constructed would be of so great strategic consequence that for example encryption would become decipherable in fractions of a second. The consequences would include national military secrets irretrievably exposed, bank accounts vulnerable to instant looting and confidential business secrets unprotected.

Commonly international conferences are the breeding ground for future important collaboration. Boson and I had been following each other's related research published in the scientific literature. It was during an informal, research relevant, discussion at a conference in Paris that we decided a year working together could be of important mutual benefit. Boson had a highly developed sense for the design and assembly of innovative technological devices, while I was an idea man. I was able to obtain funding that allowed Boson and his family to come to live in Toronto for the following year. Now after just 6 months of research together Boson and his findings were lost to us forever. Of course I had a descriptive knowledge of what Boson had achieved in his brief tenure here. Frequently we had engaged in informal discussions mostly in the laboratory next to his work station. At these times Boson presented his progress, sometimes giving demonstrations of his latest experimentation and often provided an indication of how he saw the work progressing. I never felt it essential to look through his laboratory research results that he confined to his notebooks and to scraps of paper. However I did find it odd that each evening just before his departure all this information was secreted to his briefcase and transported home. I presumed this action was an indication that he worked on this material in the evenings.

Upon receiving the emergency call from the area of the Carlaw subway station the dispatcher sent police, paramedics and a truck form the nearest fire hall. As is often the case in such instances the fire truck was the first to arrive. Its disfigured condition left no doubt that the body they faced was lifeless and so the fire personnel simply took control off the area making certain nothing was disturbed before the police and paramedics could arrive. The police upon arrival cordoned off, using their typical orange tape, a surprising large segment that encompassed the whole area behind the station and extending south to the parking lot some 20 meters distant. The coroner was called. Paramedics having made a quick observation of the body turned their attention to comforting the poor distraught woman who first discovered the body.

The crime scene investigation procedures were thorough with extensive photography and sampling of the blood contaminated snow dominating, putting particular emphasis on areas near the body. All relevant samples were handled with clean plastic gloves, collected in uncontaminated containers and carefully labeled and bagged. A detailed scene log was kept. The head had been particularly brutalized and as a result his face was probably unidentifiable. A thorough search of the area for signs of the victim's possessions and possible implements related to the murder was made. In the case of the latter a heavy mattock used in burdensome gardening applications was found discarded nearby. Upon release of the body for a closer examination by the coroner; the battered condition particularly of the head area suggested the victim was blindsided or at least was impacted without warning with a heavy blunt object, probably the mattock. The victim's personal possessions were found intact in the clothing and suggested the body was that of Professor/Dr. Boson Ion. After the crime scene investigation was complete, the coroner arranged for transportation of the body to the morgue via a medical examiner's vehicle in the usual manner. Much more detail of the crime would be available next day after the autopsy.

If this was not enough stress for a bereaved family let alone the ramifications of Boson's high scientific stature, then everything else that could, began to go wrong. No witnesses were located at the time or after a public appeal had been made. At the time of the initial investigation there was no knowledge or indication that Boson had been in possession of a brief case. Upon acquiring this knowledge an extensive search of the crime scene area and the subway system was made but this important item was never found.

Next day frenzy ensued when Boson's wife, Photon turned up for the official identification, a prescribed formality no matter the condition of the body in question. Incredibly upon opening the appropriate vault the Coroner and Photon discovered nothing inside. A subsequent search of all the other compartments ensued and none contained Boson's remains. Thus all that survived was Boson's blood and urine soaked clothing and personal effects. These included his wallet with all identification, credit cards and money intact, keys and a distinctive handkerchief that together with his clothing had been removed and bagged. When the morgue records were carefully scrutinized all the proper routing entries and chain of custody records were found to be in order. An autopsy had been scheduled to be performed the following day.

A thorough testing had discovered 2 sets of DNA. These were both present in most of the samples taken at the crime scene. The large quantity of blood present suggested that a violent struggle had occurred before the murderer got the upper hand and dispatched the victim with the mattock. Both DNA signatures were studied and one was consistent with Boson Ion. The signature of the other was run through all available data bases with no matches being discovered. However it was clear that this DNA could be identified as having been from someone with Asian origin. The murderer was never found.

The Finger prints found on the personal information contained in the items found on the body were also those of Boson Ion. Comparison of dental records with the jaw of the deceased would be of no help due to the loss of the body and in any case would probably have been invalidated by the mutilated condition of the jaw area as observed at the site of the murder.

Boson's identification was reluctantly endorsed many days later, on the basis of Photons recognition of his possessions, Boson's finger prints on personal possessions and the extensive DNA testing of his clothing and snow. As one might suppose there was Hell to pay. Not only had a world famous guest scientist been killed in Canada, but his body had subsequently been lost. The latter occurred in a system that up to that point had a spotless security record. The investigations involved 3 levels of police and presumably our intelligence service, the CIS. After many months of thorough scrutiny and review of all the facts in the case, the mess ended up a total mystery. A subsequent formal independent inquiry although critical of the already stringent procedures and precautions that could have resulted in the loss of the body of a foreign national of such high stature; had to conclude that the problems were likely compounded due to the involvement of persons or organizations at the very highest levels of criminal society. More specifically an as yet unspecified insider was presumed to have been a major conspirator.

In this regard there was also little doubt from my point of view that my friend and colleague's murder was connected to adversaries in the Quantum Computing field. It stands to reason that there would be a variety of individuals and groups who would have wanted to ensure that Boson's critical piece of this puzzle not be developed or at least not fall into hands other than their own. Because of the overwhelming significance of the power of Quantum computing the number of potential suspects ranged from individual scientist and engineers, through a large swath of the technology industry to the highest levels of governments of every stripe.

Some years after the above incident had occurred; the picture below came in an email from a very rich (by marriage) Australian woman, Mrs. Tau Muon-Ion, the daughter of my late Australian colleague and friend Professor/Dr. Boson Ion. Tau had found this partial photographic image of herself in the attic of the ancestral home amongst some recently discovered Boson possessions. A notation on the back indicated that the complete photo may lead to important information about the mystery and successful completion of the project.

Boson Ion was the real creative genius behind the technical aspects our endeavours. After his premature mysterious death, I was unable to complete the quantum computer research entailing Boson's cold laser detection which it appeared he was about to perfect. Not to put too fine a point on this, the fact that I was never accosted in any way relating to Boson's and my work, was proof of the general perception of the quantum community that I was largely technically inept in this matter.

Unexpectedly soon after receiving the partial photo, I received a second email from Tau asking if I would be willing to undertake further investigations into her father's mystery. This offer was proffered since Tau thought the partial photo might result in a new lead culminating in findings of mutual benefit. I was dubious but my cooperation was assured when I learned that Tau would cover all expenses and provide me with a small stipend.

We have a retired cop here in Old Folk's Lake condominium complex name of Woody who married rich, mostly one might suspect on the basis of good looks and stimulating personality. No one could ever accuse Woody as being one of the swifter arrows in the quiver. Unfortunately he possesses a mammoth ego and loves telling anyone who would listen, what a great detective he was and how he could observe crime scene objects with such skill that he was a super star at cobbling together the pertinent facts contained therein, a crucial step in solving any crime.

Recently when I knew I was going to be alone with him, fixing his computer I thought I would give him a challenge, so I printed a cut of Tau's partial photo and told him it was of an Aussie acquaintance and asked him to tell me what this picture told him using his "legendary" intuitive techniques. Here's what he told me the picture indicated.

"She lives with another woman." "Yep", I replied.  
"Her partners name is likely Rosemary". I said Nope (Tau lives with her daughter, but I omitted divulging this fact to Woody) At this point I decided to restrict my comments and give Woody his head.  
"Done some jail time has she"? "Those crummy tattoos (Rosemary) are typical of what are obtained in jails". " Strange she doesn't have them removed or her new partner might be jealous".--(I had read in novels that inmates give each other tattoos with very primitive devices they keep hidden in their cells using liquids they extract from a variety of food and jail yard substances).  
"The picture was taken at about ten to six"--(when I looked at the watch I thought this might be close)  
"She has an incredibly long tong, shaped somewhat like a dogs." I couldn't resist this one and told him Australian girls are noted for long dog like tongs.

I conclude that this is a partial picture of a tattooed lesbian jailbird.

I tried to keep from rolling over with laughter and had to leave the room to "go to the loo" to prevent exposing my mirth.  
I have often wondered why our police had such difficulty solving major crimes. Not surprising if Woody's theorizing is typical.

Who could have predicted that this cities 25th murder of the year would engender the following international intrigue?

### Attention reader!

You must understand that this is a story in which I am embroiled as the major thespian. In true life I had other research interests were more suitable to my talents, as opposed to Quantum computer intrigues mentioned here. These became very international in nature, centering on environmental chemistry, but were undertaken in a variety of jurisdictions on 6 continents, a couple of decades ago. Changes occur worldwide as technological advances are embraced at different rates depending on changing political and socioeconomic fundamentals that occurred in a particular area. Thus to understand the following "Elements" it is essential to view the dynamics of the 3 locales in which the plot transpires both during my initial residencies and what I found myself discharged into in the present.

Another fact germane to these "Elements" was that Boson Ion had himself been engaged in International consultancies at about the same time. Although our paths never directly intersected in our parallel consultancies, I was to encounter faint Boson spoor, here and there, most particularly in China. Thus the following is a mystery with historical throwbacks mixed in.

### The Brazilian Element

I was having difficulty preparing a plan of attack when an unusual event occurred. One day as I was pursuing all my recent email lists I came upon one that was marked as having been read, but bore a Brazilian email address and the caption. "Find part of what you seek in Campinas Brazil". The body of this missive stated, "Contact the lottery ticket seller across from your hotel". There was no signature and the Brazilian address was bogus. Of course I had never read this email before and how it was slipped onto this list in this 'having already been read' circumstance must be part of the mystery.

What was particularly befuddling was that the author of this email must have not only known I had been in Brazil many years ago on a consultancy since he/she even knew the location of the consultancy was the unremarkable city of Campinas. But to know the hotel I chose and that there was lottery board hanging in front of a store across from said hotel seemed beyond the odds. This somewhat tatty hotel where I resided at that time was not even listed in the 40 or so that I found mentioned on the internet for Campinas on the internet recently. Campinas had obviously developed a new grandeur compared to the quiet underdeveloped entity that arose in my memory.

Back pedal to my 1974 visit to Campinas to set the scene for my present adventure.

I had been appointed to teach and set up Spectrochemical research at the State University of Sao Paulo in Campinas a city of 1 million or more people, about 80 km east of Sao Paolo. Much to my surprise on the first day of work on this project I discovered that, among other sources, the staff had been recently working to improve their status by following procedures in a reference list that was scattered with Boson Ion research papers. These he had published in Australia but had somehow found their way to this relatively backward Chemical Department. To the best of my knowledge Boson had never set foot in this jurisdiction.

I had asked to be accommodated in a Brazilian domicile and not the American hotel I was slated for. In Toronto making such decisions was easy. I wanted, in my ignorance, to experience life of the locals. My hotel actually turned out to be quite acceptable. If you could endure the fact that no one spoke English (Portuguese being the native language). Also to have a hot shower, a pleasure I craved daily, the hotel water tank that dispensed water to resident rooms was located on the roof its only heat coming from exposure to the sun. Campinas sitting as it did on the Tropic of Capricorn had plenty of hot sun. But the "hot water tank" on the roof dispensed, at best tepid water to residential hot water faucets. My Room, facing the back, was also somewhat of a surprise. It was sparsely furnished including a thin mattressed bed slung low in the middle. Upon becoming recumbent therein I naturally rolled to the center with my bottom resting virtually on the floor. There was a nondescript bureau, the drawers of which were inoperable, probably because of the tropical humidity. The room was always dark because one small window faced the wall of a business college. A single dirty, dull bulb in a cracked ceiling fixture provided only meager redress.

Later as a preferred guest-I paid in US currency-I received a bright room facing the street. I was on the 6th floor and a circular staircase lead to the lobby. To say this chimney like internal geometry made the hotel a fire trap was an understatement. But that was 1970's Brazil, no appreciable safety standards. Despite all this I was living akin to the still sparse middleclass of this country.

Coming from Canada, I found the building construction in Campinas frighteningly frail and unsafe by comparison. I suppose, being as it was in the tropics, the buildings were not subject to the harsh climate changes. None-the-less it was impossible not to think that structures were almost everywhere built on the cheap. The one grand exception was, of course, churches. I kept wondering about the structural stability of my hotel in bad winds and driving rain which was a feature of the local climate.

The first morning I awoke and dressed early only to find breakfast yet unavailable. The incident did however spurn me into the discovery of a true Brazilian delight. I ambled out the door walked a block or two and stumbled still only half awake into the fruit market. Even though my hotel rate covered breakfast I learned that the prolific varieties of fruit including 5 types of bananas various types of mango, papaya, (red and orange) and some unusual types such as custard apples, were better than the soggy papaya at the hotel. So I absconded with a set of hotel cutlery and had the above delights on a paper plate in my room. Many of these fruits not available in Toronto during the years I was first in Brazil, happily have now appeared locally.

There was one Brazilian gourmet delight that I did appear regularly in the dining room to enjoy and that was coffee. This ambrosia, black as ink, was served in espresso sized cups each diner usually consuming one or two cups, black with raw cane sugar mixed in. The poor servers soon got fed up refilling my cup a hence left a pot, together with a larger cup at my table. I drank mine black, no condiments, which may explain my constant stomach problems in recent years.

Dinner was an adventure. I tried a variety of restaurants in my local area which was pretty much in the city center. Campinas not being a tourist area had very few servers who spoke English and the menus were not in this language, even in parenthesis. I couldn't find fast food restaurants, McDonald's and the such not yet spilling out into the world. You might think I would learn a few necessary words in Portuguese but my learning disability disavowed that. Failing any ability to communicate with the servers I took to trying to pick out some word(s) on the menu that looked familiar but Portuguese unlike some languages bears very little resemblance to English even in common words. As the poor attendant stood over me pen in hand I made a random stab at an item and the waited in anxious anticipation for what was to appear. I had many disasters, one of which had a pigs snout and other questionable parts in a slurry of beans. This I was to learn later was feijoada, the National Dish. Surprisingly though, I did have some successes. Unfortunately I could never remember the successful items on which my finger had contacted the menu. Then I lucked out. There it was staring at me from a restaurant window the words "Canadian Bacon" followed by unintelligible Portuguese script. What was this Dish? But what the hey it's something containing our world famous bacon, so I gave it a try. All speculation ended when a pizza like meal containing a few fragments of what did appear to be our bacon. It was good too. I began to dine here often on this very same meal. You can get away with this behavior when young.

Another food related item was drinking water. It had been part of my approach when traveling, never to drink the local water! Thus I purchased bottled water in large cartons at a local grocery store. I consumed great volumes due to the heat of the tropics. Toward the end of my stay I refused a glass of tap water at a colleague's home, saying I had to stick with bottled water. I was startled and somewhat rebuked to find that the local water was some of the purest in the world, being spring fed and also the source of my bottled water. I am scientist who isn't curious enough to bother reading labels.

Brazil was my baptism to the significance of demanding payment in US currency in many foreign lands. In the 70's, 80's and early 90's, citizens particularly in developing countries paid premiums for US funds. They literally stopped you in the street to ask to exchange. At the my modest Brazilian style hotel in Campinas the rates for payment in US funds became better at least weekly due to the high inflation rate. At American hotels transactions were in US funds so the American Hotel Chains made a killing.

A car came round each morning, at about 9:00, to transport me to the University. This gave me plenty of time to view the sites on the busy street in front of the hotel. It was one of two main business streets which intersected at right angles about 100 meters from the hotel. Both sides of the street were lined with small specialty clothing shops and open air cafes. There were fence like barriers running sidewalk to window tops across the front of each business which clattered open each morning. Of particular interest in this diverse scene was the portly, middle aged, man who set up shop as a numbers racket "depot", using a lottery board hanging always in front of the same Jeans shop practically under the noses of the police.

This takes us back to the present and the phenomenal changes that had taken place in downtown. The email that had resulted in my present visit had mentioned my old hotel, the Ponta Preta and crucial information that I would presumable receive from a lottery vendor in front of the store directly across. Greater Campinas, with a population of 1M in 1974, has now doubled and was groping for the 2M mark. (Collateral damages of this sudden population increase- something common throughout the world-included the once famous very pure spring water now badly contaminated, emanates from the city water supply. This made use of imported bottled water a necessity even for the brushing of teeth).

The small district I described above from the 1970's is still easily found. This area had now become enclosed by high rise buildings of 30 and 40 stories which contrasted with the 10 floor limit of my earlier residency. Rua 13 Mai, the location of the Ponta Preta hotel in 1974 is still a busy shopping mecca. The old hotel had disappeared, a victim of extensive rebuilding throughout the city center. Fortunately the lottery location was still present and was still represented by a slotted board hung on the front of the same clothing store.

When I arrived no lottery vendor was present in the usual spot. I approached to view the board and noted the slots were all empty except for one which had a packet that when withdrawn contained a handwritten message on the front saying "cold laser detection". There could be no doubt this was meant for me so I quickly secreted the note deeply into my side pants pocket.

I had taken a room in a nearby hotel of a modest American Chain. Being 40 years older the spirit of adventure that once characterized my travels had some time ago vanished. I now found it essential to have communication and written materials in English together and at least the main creature comforts of home. Depending on heat from the sun for water suitable warm for showering and guessing at what might constitute the contents of a menu item together with many other related difficulties were no longer acceptable shots in the dark. God I had become dull!

Upon returning with my pocketed treasure and being swept through the hotel door to the lobby in the wake a group of freebooting American students that such places attract, I plopped clumsily into the nearest comfortable looking padded chair and discharged packet contents onto my knee. It was a piece that meshed to the top of 'Woody's Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird photo' with a message on the back that had but 5 words. Praca-Carlos Gomez-noon-Saturday. The photo piece, itself, contained a further segment of the upper surface of the feminine leg and what appeared to be a shock of black animal hair.

This sleuthing business is not one of my strong points. Not being much of a clock watcher I had forgotten that the time in Campinas was UTC-3 one hour earlier than in Toronto, which if gone unnoticed might have resulted in a disastrous missed connection at the park. But you say the flight crew always announces the local time upon landing to help their patrons make such important adjustments. That may be so, but I am also terribly inattentive.

Both Rua 13 de Mai and the north part leading to the park named Praca Carlos Gomez were still beautifully paved in buff coloured intricately patterned tiles. My walk to the park was a short distance but was a reminder of a typical Brazillian urban beauty which would be destroyed completely in one Toronto winter. Praca Carlos Gomez, as you entered from the NW corner, fanned out from an area of benches lining the walkway to a foreground containing a large marble fountain behind which a gazebo of refreshment stands sat under a canopy of various varieties of air rooted massive fiscus trees.

It was Saturday noon as prescribed in the note. My bum had hardly hit one of the benches when I felt a tap, tap, tap, on the upper part of my arm. Materializing as if from nowhere a stunning, colorfully dressed, dark skinned, woman suddenly appeared behind me. This Park was well-known as a hangout for prostitutes and so I wasn't surprised. In broken English this beauty asked me to buy her a vero gelato, a particularly favoured frozen delight in Brazil. I was reluctant to leave this bench fearing that in doing so I might miss my contact. However there was something about her nature that suggested I should proceed with this request.

Upon reaching the gazebo of edible delights my new companion asked if I wished something as well, to which I declined. She made her request. Despite my refusal the ordinary looking vendor handed 1 dish of gelato to my companion and a similar offering to me. To my surprise there was a small envelope stuck unobtrusively to the underside of my dish, which I palmed clumsily into my pants pocket. While my attention was thus diverted my winsome accomplice had disappeared as mysteriously as she had a few minutes ago appeared.

This time I hit pay dirt, well sort of. Back at my hotel and having plopped down on my bed I upended the small envelope which obligingly discharged a note. Neatly printed on the back was the word "Bose" and below this, "Wits William Cullen library, head librarian". "Bose" was a famous physicist whose work could make sense in the context of the scientific dilemma that had come about due to Bosons death.

Flying back to Toronto was perhaps an unnecessarily costly and time delaying decision since Witwatersrand University which possessed the library mentioned in the Brazilian note was located in Johannesburg and much closer to Campinas Brazil than Toronto. I was already running out of money and because of my advancing age was anxious for a period of rest. I could have contacted Tau from Campinas and arranged for funding, but she being exceedingly rich and could easily afford to allow me this breather.

### Some Nagging Concerns-Time for Reflection

Remember that moment some time ago, by a pure stroke of luck, I noted amongst my recent already read emails one with a caption relating to Brazil? Considering that this 'phantom' email had not in fact ever been read by me and had in fact appeared out of the blue was in itself bizarre and cause for bewilderment. Adding to the potential intrigue was Tau's almost simultaneous discovery of the fragment of her 'tattooed Lesbian Jailbird' photo with its cryptic message, "Find part of what you seek in Campinas Brazil". At the time these 2 incidents occurred I was some years retired and had long ago put our research to rest. It was really only because of my friend Tau's still seemingly burning interest in the mystery of her father's death and my own enduring respect for Boson's scientific acumen that I agreed to undertake this mission.

The coincidence of the photo and email and the strange developing format of my search were suggestive of an important factor not yet demonstratively apparent. Could some controlling force be working in the background and if so what, who, where etc.? The fact that my protagonist was sending me to exact locations of consultancies that were accomplished as much as 40 years ago did mean that he/she knew or had researched the intimate details of my consulting. Was Tau in anyway choreographing this saga, purposely sending me to locales that although even slightly, had a Boson Ion splotch and if so what was the connection?

A strange fact remained that since his demise, Boson's research had presumably been extended by other workers anxious for the success of his methodology; yet little evidence of any progress was evident in the published literature. This was made even more unusual since all procedures to find some alternative solution to the Quantum Computer based measurement problem had apparently failed, to this date.

### South African Element

As we bounce from country to country in pursuit of Boson's puzzle pieces in the cold laser transducer sweepstakes, it may seem strange to the reader that a Johannesburg University library and head librarian would come into play. The following is a couple of paragraphs to explain my early professional status, 'relevant character flaws' and strange attachment to this city in South Africa all of which relate to this tale.

An immature young man, adventurous and eager to gain recognition for his early research endeavours in the field of Spectro-Analytical Chemistry of Gold and the other Precious Metals, excitedly accepted a request to present an 'Invited Lecture'. A prestigious International organization, the Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry, sponsored this conference in 1976. Obtaining an 'Invited Lecture' invitation was recognition of my work as particularly notable in the field. This was in fact not deserved and was the result in large part of being in the right place at the right time. The recognition was mainly for the legitimate pioneer in this field, my recently deceased Research Director Professor F.E.B., with whom I was the junior co-author of 2 books on the subject. My own research in the field had been strongly influenced by this Icon and was of note only because I adapted many Precious Metal analysis procedures for use with the new revolutionary technique of Atomic Absorption Spectrometry. This technique was invented by outstanding pioneer in his field Sir A.W. in Australia, another senior colleagues that I had worked with by lucky circumstance. Viewed in the cold bright light of reality I was a poor substitute for either of these figureheads.

This preamble explains my lame excuse for going to South Africa in times of unforgivable horrific treatment of the Blacks and other nonwhites under the system called Apartheid. One can understand an atmosphere that sporadically spawned riots since whites were now using any dreadful scheme of black suppression. Treatment consisting of but not limited to, disenfranchisement, torture, espionage, massacre, which in each category involved women and children, were used as a deterrent against defying the wishes and the 'rights' of the ruling white population. To illustrate the magnitude of the population discrepancies consider that there were approximately 15% whites and 85% nonwhite (75% black and 10% colored and Indians combined). On this basis the same proportions can be used to approximate the difference between the very rich and the poor. In fact South Africa, in 1976, represented the worst case of such dispossession in the world!

South African settlement by the whites associated with The Dutch East India Company in took place in 1652. This area in the Cape Region, had been initially conceived as a provisioning post. My name being Van Loon (Dutch, though 5 generations Canadian) I have to be aware of the possible complicity of my early ancestors in the South Africa debacle and of what was to follow. The Afrikaners segment of the white population was also known as the Cape Dutch. Africans spoken today by this group is an off shoot of the Dutch Language and is the native language of not only of the Dutch settlers but also French Refugees and Germans subsequently settling in the expanding area.

During the 1700's the British began a large settlement at the Cape. They favoured freedom for the slaves and at that early time dominated the original, mainly Afrikaner farmer (Boer) population. Thus the latter made a "Great Trek" to the North. During the period from first settlement to the establishment after the "Trek" of the Boer Republics of the Transvaal and Orange Free State in 1853, bloody conflicts with Black Tribes were rife. Rivalry between British and the Boers culminated in the Boer Wars of the 1880's. The British prevailed and the states were incorporated as part of the British Empire. This Country became known as the union of South Africa with the power solidly in White Hands. The policy of Apartheid ('separateness') was established in 1947 with the election of the Boer dominated National Party. The resulting government, "officially elected" by an all-white population, was declared the only government of South Africa.

A Black supremacy organization to become known as the African National Congress (ANC) was formed in 1912. This organization fought for the rights of Blacks in South Africa and was declared Illegal by the White Supremacist Government, The ANC and other Black organizations were forced underground and their anti-apartheid leaders were openly hunted and either shot or captured. The most famous Nelson Mandela was imprisoned on Robben Island along with hundreds of others. The Reverend Desmond Tutu who won a Nobel Peace crusaded most fearlessly to end minority white rule and was one of those who carried the heaviest load in winning eventual Black freedom. The Government branded such persons as Communists whether this was true or not. Indeed there was a mentality among the White Population in general that a Communist existed under every bed

I was much opposed to the idea and implementation of Apartheid, yet I am embarrassed to say I had no idea of its horrors and real implications. More damningly I did no research into the matter. My sights were totally set on the honor of giving an invited talk on my research. Thus the full horrific nature of the forgoing I discovered on the Internet and in Nelson Mandela's wonderful autobiography "Long Walk to Freedom" at a later stage. The term Black Townships was foreign to me although I had a vague memory of the words Soweto and Sharpsville. It was only upon arrival in Kenya on the way back to Toronto that I realized riots where young people were being killed in the hundreds, injured in the thousands, just for protesting the imposition of the sole use of the Afrikaans language in schools; had actually been rampant in Soweto as we danced and dined in 1976 with the "beautiful People"-all white of course, at conference social functions. All news of the incidents was absent in the highly censored "official" English Language press. Strange as it may seem the rumblings of armed Pill Box truck conveys through Johannesburg streets raised little curiosity amongst the conference delegates, me included.

To fill our spare time and as stated above, in total ignorance of the riots a friend, my wife and I, rented a car and took a peaceful Sunday afternoon drive through the Southern areas near Johannesburg. During this ramble we made an unplanned stop at a teahouse located just within the black townships often grouped under the familiar name Soweto. This was Ohlahs. This teahouse becomes central to my activities in this 'Element' of the Boson Ion intrigue.

From the above the reader can understand that my South African travel engagement during apartheid was mostly based on improving my scientific stature, an ego phenomenon and untaken with an ancillary feeling that I was compromising my own principles in so doing. Since over the years there had been many less contentious locales amongst my retinue of consultations, I wondered if including this terror wrought country in this present scenario was the leader of our mystery's idea of providing an element for my censure or even something more sinister.

Be that as it may the shocking revelations that I was about to encounter were a lesson in what happens when a coercibly manhandled and purposely uneducated Black population kept in this manner over a few hundred years suddenly comes to power in a mood for retribution and economic justice. To be on the safe side, upon arrival at the O.R. Tambo Johannesburg/Pretoria airport I booked an expensive American style hotel nearby. My intension was to laze about spending Tau's money on recreation and food, secured herein until my required trip to the William Cullen Library. But booze filled curiosity got in the way.

The next afternoon I found myself in the hotel drinking an old local favourite. After several sugar cane liqueurs with a twist of lime I began reminiscing about my 1976 consultancy related experiences with the bar tender. Unexpected I found myself asking this gentleman if there was any way', in safety, I could tour some of my old familiar haunts from that former time? He referred me to the Bell captain who promptly arranged a private tour in one of the hotel limousines.

I already knew from my research on the internet that Johannesburg had undergone degradation that would be hard to believe for those like me who had seen it in its economic heyday. What was surprising was the magnitude of the debasement.

Witwatersrand University from the backseat of the limo appeared still a very visible seemingly largely untouched landmark. The old east campus and newer west campus face one another across the capacious Jan Smuts Ave and are visibly thrown into direct line view by an auspicious swing right of the roadway immediately in front of the main buildings. But Hillbrow, a mere stone's throw to the east and the former crown jewel, inner city residential neighborhood of prestigious high-rises, today lies in virtual crumbling disintegration as a drug infested slum. Likewise the former thriving world renowned business center known as Johannesburg CBD some few km SE of the university is in ruination. Its demise typified for me by the woeful condition of the crumbling bus stop of the same name a location I had often arrived at on my way to to pursue discussions with mining scions of the 1970's.

Surprisingly, as formerly the economics mostly supported by the mining industry still thrive. However the offices of the latter had ominously been moved together with the former wealthy of Hillbrow to the more irenic environment of the northern suburbs of Sandton and Rosebank. Corruption is now rampant throughout the country particularly at the higher levels of government. Not surprisingly despite the present economic boom the poor have seen no benefit from this seemingly incessant cornucopia

Despite tour groups still travelling in relative safety throughout selected areas in South Africa such trips were/are purposely kept to the few locales that prevent a glimpse or intrusion into the nation's most brutal reality. In contrast my self-directed tour allowed me to wade into some of Johannesburg's most distraught precincts.

Now in the stone cold sober light of the next morning I faced my mission to the William Cullen Library. Doing so meant leaving the safety of my conveyance at this destination. This seemed particularly propitious considering the amount of evidence of violence toward foreigners.

Violence toward so called foreigners in areas of central Johannesburg has been debated ad nauseam by well-known faculty, journalists and many other worthies separately and in Symposia. Yet any positive results (practical solutions) from these endeavours are negligible in fact conditions continue to deteriorate. It begs the question as to how these notables could expect to find solutions under the present state of wide spread corruption?

Foreigners in terms used in above context seem to include any citizens from outside Johannesburg. To the outsider, a true foreigner like me, the issues seem blatantly obvious and can be categorized in large part very simply as corruption, racism, past coercive history against Blacks, resentment therefrom and black poverty; these being the expected results of high crime rate, lack of education, high unemployment, malnutrition and ill health. Logically this should be the termination of discussions until major corruption rectification, which appears, in truth, to be a never ending constant.

That Wits University was a bastion of White domination during apartheid hardly justifies mention. Surprisingly post-apartheid problems at Wits still remain largely racial in nature. The recent Black student influx caused a high level of discomfort among the Whites. For example this is particularly apparent in the residential student accommodation situation. As the Black students began moving in the largest fraction of the existing white residential population abandoned their accommodation resulting in black domination. Not surprisingly the remaining residential population adopted a segregated pattern a situation certainly at odds in a post-apartheid era. The only difference on the Wits University campuses is that this racial situation is largely restrained compared to the destructive confrontations described above which for example sent the rich White Hillbrow residents into a state of segregation in the northern suburbs.

So I am now confronted by making my connection at Wits William Cullen Library. Why not hire the hotel limousine for this purpose? That's exactly what I did. The chief librarian had been instructed to look at the serial number of my passport and through this and using a list of numbers in his instructions he would be able to identify the book inside which the message would be found. After inspecting my passport thoroughly he went to a prominent locked case in the stack area and withdrew a volume. It was a first edition of my favourite Dickensian classic "Great Expectations" which under the circumstances seemed propitious. I was not allowed to touch the tome. Instead the librarian using a pair of special gloves found my information packet lying loosely on the back cover bearing the usual words "cold laser detection". I pocketed the object and returned to the taxis and on the way to the airport discharged the packet contents onto my knee. It was another small piece that again extended 'Woody's Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird photo'. The inscription contained 5 words on the back, stating; "Ohlahs teahouse-5 pm-Saturday". This photo extension showed that the black hair, revealed from the piece acquired in Brazil, indeed belonged to a dog with its head resting on the 'Jailbirds' Knee.

It was only Wednesday and my engagement at Ohlahs was 3 days hence. I wish to assure you that it became my intention to henceforth confine myself to the security of my hotel, not leaving these premises until the very last minute on Saturday.

Now more than 40 years later it seemed to me a miracle that this teahouse still existed. Most certainly kindly elderly Ohlah would have passed on.

The reader might expect that as with my trip to Wits I could simply order the hotel limousine, be driven to Ohlahs, retrieve my message and return in the same conveyance to the airport. However I was presented with a dilemma, something that meant leaving the hotel earlier than I had hoped on the third day to be certain of not missing the appointed 5pm time slot. Meanwhile I had forgotten that life was astounding in expensive hotels; so for two days I reveled in this opulence, the required trip to Ohlahs a tiny fragment in the back of my mind.

About 10:30am on the third day I left the hotel without packing my bags, expecting to do so and having something to eat before catching the 'redeye' back to New York. The hotel limo and taxi companies located in Johannesburg refused to drive into township regions. However in both cases the drivers were well versed on the correct spot to discharge a township's bound passenger for transfer to the required transportation depending on his desired destination therein. At the transfer locations mini bus like vehicles waited until enough passengers had been assembled to fill the vehicle before proceeding outwards. Each passenger paid a fixed fee before embarking, the cost of which was independent of distance being travelled. It was a bit of a euphemism to use the word 'fill' since as time ticked relentlessly forward the driver waited until the bus was jammed to the point that it took several attempts to dislodge a final aspirant in order to shut the door.

Yes I had actually left the safety of my hotel and was now unwittingly part of a motley odorous consignment destined, I hoped for Olahas. The comment motley and foul smelling should not be taken as a criticism of the nature of my fellow passengers since the vehicle had also acquired a variety of passenger possessions which ranged from the usual luggage to 'fragrant' food stuffs and even tethered or caged live poultry.

Dilemma number 2 now arose. This bus load was destined for various points in the townships with Ohlahs an early unmarked stop into this odyssey. I had taken the precaution of chatting up the driver before embarking to make certain he knew of this Ohlahs and that the bus would indeed stop at this destination. I paid my fare including a generous tip when he told me with a wink of his eye that everyone knew Ohlahs and there would be no problem in discharging me at that destination.

Groaning like an elephant that had just eaten one too many umbrella acacias our vehicle lumbered southward. After about 20 minutes we were passing Ohlahs at full momentum even though said locale was now much more prominently signed and despite my anguished bellows to stop the vehicle. We had traveled a km or so past the destination before the overloaded vehicle managed to skid to a stop. I fought my way forward and having achieved a position by the door I was summarily discharged with only a muttered; "have a great day". God I hated that bromidic and meaningless phrase! It was particularly pathetic considering my abandonment alone this far from my destination.

As I struggled on foot through the deflating heat of this summer's late afternoon and approached a much expanded more garish looking complex I was beginning to make sense of the drivers comment that everyone knew Ohlahs. The tiny cottage teahouse with the screened in front porch which I had fondly remembered had educed over the years into a raucous bar and brothel complex.

Be that as it may I had indeed reached 'Ohlahs' at approximately the appointed hour. The note that landed me here had given no direction as to who to approach for my message. Thus I sidled up to the bar and gave the attendant my name an action that prompted no useful reaction. Thus I ordered a Van der Hum liqueur and fell into a seat with a view of the crowded parking lot. To comment that most of the cliental was slovenly would be a compliment. I was beginning to despair when I found myself suddenly gazing across the table at a dark haired buxom young woman. She sat in a manner that her shapely legs were protruding cunningly beside the table. There was no preamble just a simple question; "would you like to accompany me to my room"? As in Brazil I was uncertain of this approach and whether in leaving the bar area I might miss the real message bearer. Reluctantly I followed this enchanting woman to the stated destination. My doubts grew much more acute when upon reaching the room; she sat me on the bed and began to unbutton her blouse. I was mesmerized into inactivity as I watched this spectacle continue. For an instant I came back to earth when I unexpectedly perceived notepaper protruding from behind the clasp of her bra in the cleft of her breasts. Hopefully as her next move she would simply dislodge the small article from its containment area and pass it to me. Instead she leaned toward me and motioned for me to retrieve the object of my interest. Carefully so as to avoid contact with her skin I gingerly took hold of the protruding corner of the note. It seemed irretrievably wedged!

To make a long story short I did acquire the note and did so in an inculpable fashion whatever that might mean to the reader. The fact that I handed her a fee is no admission of impropriety, after all she had rendered a 'service'. What was momentarily disappointing is that I had undergone all this sybaritic stress for a note that contained the single word 'Einstein' and the phrase 'Guangzhou, Snake Restaurant'. But my spirits brightened. I realized that I was approaching a possible answer. Putting the name Bose obtained in Brazil with the Name Einstein acquired in South Africa and I began to wonder if Boson was referring to measurements relating to Bose Einstein condensates, low energy liquid masses cooled to near absolute zero using lasers. This technique might be relevant to detecting the informational state of qubits, our unfinished research task. But this is physics and as I promised earlier is not important to the present quandary.

I have now returned to Toronto but only after some further harrowing experiences. It's hard to imagine the difficulty I had in returning from Ohlahs. The mini bus taxis never stopped when I tried to hail them. They were of course full to overflowing by the time they reached this area relatively near the city. It was now becoming quite dark and frightened of missing the plane; I bemoaned the fact that I had not packed my bags and left them at the airport. By now I would have even settled for a ride back on the roof of these vehicles much like I had seen done on Indian and African railroads. However presumably by good luck a patron from Ohlahs, noticing my plight offered me a drive back to where I could catch a city taxi for the drive to the airport. Although we passed many areas where city cabs were available my benefactor carried on dropping me off disconcertedly on a quiet deserted street. However before I had time to panic a lone unremarkable cab pulled up. On the back seat rested my luggage, hopefully packed with my cloths and few possessions that were formerly scattered about my room at the hotel. The cabbie ardently motioned me to the front seat and without instructions drove me straight to the appropriate area of the airport. Whereupon he leapt from his seat and retrieving my gear from the back seat impatiently rushed toward the entrance. Once inside he dropped the luggage and without accepting a fare left as mysteriously as he had appeared in the back street of Johannesburg. Tau had a wicked sense of the dramatic and could it be she playing me as her unwitting surety in what was becoming a tawdry drama? There was no proof of this and I had too much interest and respect for her late father to quit.

### China Element

Boson Ion during an earlier period, that is in the late 1980's early 1990's, was a technology consultant in several jurisdictions in China, as was I; but we never met in our similar capacities there. The following provides a spasmodic snap shot of China as it was less than 30 years ago during my several consultancies which covered an area bounded by Changchun in the NE through to Guangzhou (Canton) in the SW a distance of approximately 2600 km.

In the late 1980's China, living conditions even in the major cities were Spartan by Western standards. Rule by Communist Government can seem oppressive, arbitrary, inefficient, immutable, intrusive, merciless and intimidating to the foreigner. It was all of these and more to the Chinese citizens.

Although I never had the privilege of even entering the homes of those in average or below average living condition categories it did not take a Swami to surmise such habitation. My only excursion beyond my own relatively rugged living quarters was to visit the home of a famous Chinese artist. His paintings, which he did in scroll format, hung in art galleries and Government buildings.

His home consisted of 2 sparsely furnished rooms. The total floor size was probably less than 1/4 of my Toronto homes 350 square meters. The bathroom was shared and down the hallway, with 2 teenage daughters in the household a rut must eventually have developed in the hall floor. Of the 2 rooms one was the kitchen and eating area. Here on several occasions the 4 of us lined up in the preparation area and participated in the time honoured activity of having all present participate in making dumplings. These latter are a staple of North East Chinese cuisine. The largest room was living quarters, bedroom, study, art studio and sewing room. No TV existed, although available at this time the equipment was of such deficient design that breakdowns were persistent and programming was interspersed with frequent political propaganda. A small "boombox" type unit played cassettes and local radio broadcasts. As is common in China heating was undependable and always sparse, despite the fact that this part of China had typically Southern Canadian cold winters. To accomplish indoor work during frequent winter cold spells, Chinese householders wore gloves from which the tips of the fingers were removed.

Most commonly during November, roofs, yards, sidewalks, parks, in fact any free areas were chock-a-block covered with vegetables of most types (even Romaine lettuce) drying in the late fall sun. Unlike Toronto, fresh vegetables were commercially unavailable during the cold months and this was one of the essential annual winter preparations.

Refrigeration was uncommon and hence packed into intolerably busy days, were trips to the market. Supermarkets were uncommon to nonexistent depending on locale. During the months when weather permitted markets were out of doors and consisted of rows of stalls here and there throughout the city. Water filled tubs of eels and other fish. All types of red meat and poultry were dispensed unrefrigerated during the many hours of operation. The stand was typically constructed of roughhewn wood with an uncovered bamboo log slotted dispensing surface. Blood soaked between the cracks as well as into exposed surfaces. Carcasses were strung from wire across the roof line. Upon demand the merchant dislodged a carcass from the wire and hacked off the requested cut with few whacks of a brutal looking, blood dripping, cleaver. In the absence of wrapping materials the customer was handed the mangled dripping mass to be deposited into the customer provided receptacle. In Canada, home delivery of milk and bread was common place until the late 40's. But in China peddlers were still walking the streets, many hawking tofu from large slabs on trays held over their heads. These vendors cut rectangular pieces to order from the large slab.

At this point in history 95% of Chinese society had only bicycle transportation. No commercial back packs were available. Thus produce was transported from the market in mesh bags and the like, hung here and there like Christmas tree ornaments from the bikes.

Stalls set up in propitious locations provided goods and services. Shoe and bicycle repair were 2 of the more common offerings. Barbers and herbal medicine practitioners could be found here and there. Book stalls were of particular note. With the heavy handed Government censorship of literature being practiced I was shocked to discover books in English by American authors like Salinger and Hemingway and English writers Virginia Woof and even Dickens.

Related to what appeared to be this slowly dawning of carefully 'ignored' but spotty incidents of greater tolerance, was the outbreak of clusters of large signboards mostly associated with Universities. These were covered by writings in Chinese. My colleagues were quick to explain that these well-read posters were mildly worded political criticisms and calls for greater personal freedoms. But true to form here and there large swaths had been obliterated by black paint likely the work of Government censors. The mere existence of such signage was a surprise considering the proximity of this era to the Cultural Revolution.

Although large public agitations were rare it was not uncommon to witness what appeared to be a politically motivated minor disturbance. When such an event occurred, depending upon its traits and demeanor a member of the secret police might emerge. Although wearing civilian clothing this individual would produce a red cloth arm band as a sign of authority, which he or she quickly donned. Within minutes this enforcer would invoke proper order, often removing the offender(s) to a position in the area from which the regular police could procure an arrest.

Fast forward to recent China:

I arrived in China at a time of my own choosing but not long after I had recuperated from the episode in South Africa. All I had for directions was to turn up at the Snake restaurant in Guangzhou. Since no time element had been specified I expected that more instructions, already on the premises, would be garnered any time that I wished in the now typical mysterious way.

No major jurisdiction of my acquaintance has seen such drastic change in less than 30 years than urban China. Western technology had arrived big time! Modernization of populous countries like China has the potential to adversely and irrevocably destabilize the environment. Such drastic change which is continuously accelerating could easily cause problems that would lurch us into an environment unsustainable for human existence.

For example since Boson and my China consulting at earlier times; cars have replaced bicycles resulting in millions of new personally generated sources of greenhouse gas pollution. This has been exacerbated by a vast accompanying increase of dirty industry and coal fired power generation to serve the growing population and the steady modernization of living conditions for an emerging middle-class.

As in Brazil this time I chose a hotel that suited my basic needs, that is to have services available in English but not in any way a luxurious setting. Unlike Johannesburg I perceived no threat to my well-being and so was able to still enjoy the benefits of living without the isolation from China's culture that living in luxury hotels would mean. Little did I know how sparse my previously experienced 80's Chinese culture had become? It was my intent to have some casual site-seeing to old haunts before leaving. The problem was that none of my old haunts were listed as still in existence. Quite frankly I was upset by the disappearance in general of the familiar casual ambiance of street vendors, narrow homey streets and minimal Western style modernization. Although Guangzhou, even in my earlier life in China was the most 'contemporary' city in which I had resided, the extravagant changes here were still off-putting. Thus after only 2 frustrating days trying unsuccessfully to sample the past; early the next afternoon I hopped in a cab and proceeded to the Snake Restaurant. Upon reaching my destination and discharging the cab I hurried to the front window of the restaurant in queasy anticipation of watching the writhing mass of reptiles on display for the potential customers benefit. Not surprisingly, consistent with widespread modernization, this living advertisement had been displaced by a curtained tapestry of gaudy replicas.

I entered and took a seat in an empty booth surrounded by what I presumed was the usual lunch hour crowd. As I perused the menu which formerly contained only preparations made from the flesh of snakes; I was dismayed to note the addition of a selected variety of Western dishes including, God forbid, the mundane hamburger.

While sadly perusing this unexpected list of common place offerings now diminishing the former wide selection of snake based cuisine, an unfamiliar Caucasian face approached and slid her portly body onto the seat opposite. Without a word she slid her hand flat across the table lifting it to reveal a folded handkerchief that I discovered contained the final piece of the photo puzzle picture (See completed picture below). The former embroidered with the name 'Rosemary', the inscribed name on the arms of Woodies Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird, sent a shiver up my spine. A single grouping of symbols and letters, perhaps a coded message, had been carefully written on the obverse of the puzzle piece. But this was only a minor ripple in a now quickly unfolding episode. It felt as though I had become a bit player about to make his entry into a cryptic pantomime.

Without a word 'Rosemary' arose and motioned me to leave the booth and follow her to what appeared to be one of the establishment's banquet rooms to which she pointed. The door slowly and dramatically opened.

Who was sitting there but the supposedly "late" Boson Ion staring coldly past me but otherwise looking in the pink of health? I was also facing a silent room full of robotic looking technicians tinkering with idling technology in the background. In a state of shock I walked slowly and quietly around checking out the components. What I saw was a mock up replete with the crucial components of a Quantum Computer, very crude in configuration, but apparently operational.

Suddenly the silence breaks but it is only me stating; "okay Boson what's this all about and how come you are not dead"? Boson remained silent and motionless still staring coldly through the door by which I had entered. Somebody handed me a small laboratory record book. Before I had a chance to follow-up on my initial enquiries 'Rosemary' ushered me through the banquet hall door which she reentered and then closed and locked behind me. I stand starring at this portal suddenly realizing that I have been disavowed except for the handkerchief, coded message on the puzzle piece and a laboratory record book. I depart the restaurant with trepidation.

Boson was of course last seen in Canada supposedly dead, but his body was never formally identified, it having been stolen from the Toronto morgue during the first night of storage. Yet I saw his silent figure front and center of the Snake Restaurant banquet hall tableau.

Boson's banquet hall device was inelegant, still probably capable of breaking encryption codes albeit with complications, but ultimately successfully. In fact might Boson's group be creating damaging viruses like the Heartbleed bug that had already been used to break encryptions including those protecting an Online Tax Filing Service?

This could cause world turmoil if the device was used to decrypt military secrets of worldwide powers, banks files and other critical worldwide sensitive data. Boson had to be arrested and his equipment destroyed. In today's China this would be possible since this country stood to lose as much as any other. The only joker in this pack was whether the powers-at-be would eradicate Boson's invention or attempt to master its use and deploy it for their own purposes. All things considered I had to take that chance.

I had no difficulty in finding Chinese authorities who were anxious to find Boson and his equipment. So by early evening I was accompanying the appropriate officials to Boson's banquet hall/laboratory. We entered the now packed Snake Restaurant and wound our way to the location of interest. I mentioned the locked door and to preserve the element of surprise one of the authorities was about to break down the door when it opened and a diner casually emerged. This was accompanied by a raucous noise and the sight of a banquet hall full of partying patrons. The room was quickly evacuated and examined closely for incriminating vestiges of Boson's operation. After disrupting all the restaurants activities to thoroughly examine the premises, it was evident in the minds of the Chinese Officials that nothing out of the ordinary existed, or apparently ever had. What a setback this seemingly impossible quick disappearance of a laboratory and traces of all the personnel and equipment posed to my credibility.

As would be predicted the Chinese authorities had little doubt that I had for some reason perpetrated this nuisance. After several hours of intensive questioning to which I could provide no answers I was escorted to the Airport and placed on a plane bound for Toronto. On the trip home in a state of bewilderment I tried to further assess the situation as regards Boson's device.

Since my appraisal of the situation was that even using Boson's device even in its present form was a serious threat to worldwide encrypted data; God help us if refinements to the detection system could be made. In scientific terms what if the coherence of the Qubits could be maintained in a solid detection medium rather than the present Bose/Einstein laser cooled liquid detection environment of Boson's equipment! A proximate analogy would be that since a solid is much denser than a liquid, orders of magnitude more potentially detectable particles in measurable states could be packed into a solid, Thus Boson's device with a solid detection system would be many times faster. It must be concluded that if not Boson then others sometime in the future would solve this and other problems and a true quantum computer would be developed. On the positive side specialists are working to devise methodology that will defeat quantum computer decryption programs.

By the way the reader must be curious about the coded puzzle and laboratory record book that I was given while present in Boson's now vanished headquarters. These I had carefully kept from Chinese authorities even though their disclosure might have preserved my reputation.

Upon recuperating in Toronto I was able to have an expert decipher the key to this code which was embedded in the written characters on the puzzle piece. With this decipher in hand I was able to determine from reading the laboratory record book that a theory of how a device even superior in capability to the quantum computer might be developed. Even with my spotty knowledge of atomic theory it was apparent that such this equipment, let's call it a "Super Q. Computer", would cost billions to build and would depended on refinements being discovered to augment existing atomic theory, clearly beyond the capability of present physics. Considering the mysteries that were piling up one after another, my having been given a peak at the sketchy plans for the atrociously, calamitous super Q computer could only be a viewed as giving mankind the finger.

### Mysteries

Thus we are left with many uncertainties at this writing:

The first set revolves around the major mastermind in this tale.

Was that really Boson that I saw in the laboratory? If so Boson had either been a major conspirator in the events surrounding the Toronto murder or he had been kidnaped and forced into co-operation.

But If Boson was dead, who was behind what had appeared to be Boson's China operation?

The most likely suspect amongst the banquet hall roomful of otherwise robotic appearing technicians would be 'Rosemary', the name tattooed on Woodies hypothesized Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird.

Tau stands out as a major candidate. This would seem probable based on the following. She of all these suspects had the money and probably the required scientific connections. These connections could have been formulated when in due course; Tau met many of her father's scientific acquaintances when they visited Boson in Australia. Every jurisdiction to which I was sent resulted in the acquisition of clues on a new fragment of Tau's originally provided photo.

Yet why would Tau send me on an expensive, 3 pronged adventure, to ultimately end up at the restaurant in China replete with a vanishing laboratory? Also seemingly flying in the face of Tau's actual involvement is that she would have had been responsible for her father's original disaster.

The DNA in the blood on the murder weapon (mattock handle) as well as that contaminating many of the other samples recovered at the Toronto murder scene was identified as being Asian. An Asian mastermind would be possible considering all the final scenes were played out in China.

The second set of questions revolves around the new concept for a Super Q. Computer which was secreted to me in the laboratory/banquet hall in China.

Who was really responsible for providing me with this material and why?

Should I destroy this laboratory book and code key containing, puzzle piece?

Was there any chance anyway that the Super Q. Computer could be built before mankind self-destructs by the growing numbers of means that are now becoming immanent in an already overpopulated world?

Then we have the problem of motive:

One thing is clear, those who are candidates for mastermind must have had motive to set up the 'murder' and body disappearance in Toronto. The motive to devise a complex plot involving travel to 3 countries, including the acquisition of 'Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird' puzzle pieces with dribs of information and the like was also required. The candidate also had to have personal information about my former consultancies decades ago.

### Denouement

As a result of all this uncertainty which appear to have no definitive answers the following was the situation.

Tau Muon-Ion, my wealthy protagonist in many of these events, offered an attitude of dissatisfaction with my efforts. In fact as things now stood she claimed she was even more uncertain of Bosons fate than before we started the charade. Thus she stated that, from her view point, she had spent much money for no purpose and felt that she deserved some satisfaction. Considered in the light of other factors mentioned above this statement could easily be interpreted as a smokescreen from a possible mastermind.

I on the other hand, had discovered the existence of frightful world threatening equipment which could possibly be attributable to Boson. Worse I had in my possession rough plans for an even much more calamitous device. My reputation and credibility had been rendered to ashes; certainly in China, from where this state of my affairs would most certainly leak to the rest of the World. Under these circumstances I was rendered dysfunctional on all fronts, an insignificant ink blot on the saga of one of mankind's deepening dilemmas.

But wait the solution to this mystery was staring me in the face and was embodied in the data evident on the 'Tattooed Lesbian Jail Bird' but not as previously evident. The keyword was contained in a partially smudged rendering of letters even on Tau's original Photo segment. These became perceptible from a magnified fragment of the arm was studied in the final assembly of the collected puzzle pieces. Under the name Rosemary on the hand appears the barely legible word 'plant'. Plants grow from seeds. Tau Muon Ion was the plant and that suggested her mother, Photon and/or her father, Boson represent the seed that grew into this plant.

Thus I believe what happened was that Photon and Tau arranged to have Boson kidnapped. The reason for fingering Photon was that Boson must have divulged to Photon that he had already discovered the answer to the cold laser detection problem. At the time of this disclosure he was carefully outlining in his lab notes contained in the brief case he took home each night. He probably wanted to tidy up some of the science behind his findings before also informing me of his success.

It was obvious from casual comments made to me by Boson that Photon had desires of living a grand lifestyle one more akin to that of her daughter which was much superior to that she could hope for with Boson working as a salaried technologist researcher. As things stood if Boson solved the cold laser detection problem he would receive only token remuneration. This would transpire since under the terms of our grant I would be required report the findings to the Grant Sponsor who would file a patent. The proceeds from the pattent would be the property of the Granting Agency with only a small percentage payable to Boson and me. Photon knowing that the discovery was in the bag and that I was as yet none the wiser, wanted a much larger fraction of what would be an immense sum. Thus she had a backup plan which appeared to involve the Chinese. The Asian blood at the Toronto crime scene and my well-orchestrated discovery in China of the apparent quantum computer laboratory seemed to be highly suggestive of this conception. My experience during my earlier China consultancies suggested that Chinese infrastructure and governance style, together with underground organizations in North America could easily have orchestrated the Toronto events and subsequently accommodated all the requirements both scientific and personal that Photon might require.

Adding Tau to this mix was essential since her 3 pronged 'Elements' involving me in the discovery of the additional 'Tattooed Lesbian Jailbird' photo pieces led to the final China fiasco through which I was thoroughly discredited. This was crucial so that I was removed from providing any credible roadblock to the overriding plan to achieve their ilicit scientific and remunerative goals.

Finally I was forced to assume that the crime in Toronto was a cunningly staged kidnapping whereby Professor Dr. Boson Ion was a willing collaborator or victim as follows. The mutilated body found at the scene and which disappeared from the mortuary before an autopsy could be performed could easily have been procured by Photons underground Asian associates. This body, the snow and a collection of Boson's personal effects were drenched in Bosons blood. This need not suggest Boson was dead since it could be obtained by relieving Boson of a liter or so of this fluid. The second set of DNA, retrieved from items at the crime scene, was typed as being Asian but could not be linked to any individual even using all available DNA databases.

Whether as a willing collaborator or unwitting victim Boson was kept alive as the essential scientific technologist/leader in cobbling together the essential components of the cold laser detection Quantum computer. I have no problem in proposing that even as an unwitting victim Boson would be relatively easily persuaded to complete his project. Even without the temptation revolving around a big payday Boson would more importantly have no impediments, financial, or otherwise standing in the way of his satisfaction in the developing the world's first operational Quantum Computer and possibly even more frightful computers.

Disclaimer- The above story is wholly a work of fiction including all characters, concepts and theories presented. Although locales relate to existing jurisdictions these are used for convenience with no aspersions intended. Some of the author's experiences over 30 years ago as a consultant are true but are used simply to provide background for this story of fiction.

How all this might relate to the real world is up to the reader's thoughtful imagination.

#  Chapter 2

# The Corpse that went Boating and Other Summer Cottage Adventures

Authors Note: Although some of these stories sound a bit bizarre this is to assure the reader that they all actually occurred roughly as written; but of course the identities have been changed and thus the names are all fictitious.

## 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.

## McMurphies, More Foibles of Working in a 1940's General Store

Can any of my readers remember the gas pumps with graduated glass jar reservoirs that resided atop the gas pumps in the gas stations of small town North America of the 1920's through 40's? Using a long pump handle at the base of the pump which was pushed side to side the attendant laboriously filled the jars displaying graduated gallon markers to the 10 gallon top mark before each new gasoline customer could be served. Or possibly you have seen pictures of these old-fashioned pumps. Perchance like the ones that fronted poor disillusioned Tom's auto repair garage in the in 1974 Jon Ford Coppola's version of the movie of F. Scott Fitzgerald's classic, The Great Gatsby. Be that as it may a gas pump of this genre graced Tom McMurphies General store and was only one of the banes of my existence those summers I worked as a go-for and general do-it-all in his employ at this facility near my father's cottage.

Venturing inside the store from the side entrance next to the gas pump a customer was greeted by an emporium with shelves filled with canned goods on one side wall and the back wall. Kindly infirm, Martha, Tom's wife, was always to be found rooted to her desk chair at the front of the store, behind the counter at the front by a window a fresh pencil protruding from its familiar location within her mountain of hair. The ice cream serving supplies and stock was at the back forming a section of the back counter. It was located on the left segment hidden from Martha's view from her desk chair view by the cheese and meat refrigerated display on the side counter. Unlike today when ice cream is scooped from a myriad of tubs of different flavours and the size of the proffered portion varies according to the whim of the server. Back then individually paper wrapped servings of delightfully known as mellow rolls were manufactured in a formed to fit the top of a standard cone. When the desired flavour was stuck in the cone and papers were removed a standard sized cylinder of the product was revealed. Do-it-all Jon after a bout with ice wrangling (see below) on a hot summer day was known to pop ½ a mellow roll surreptitiously into his mouth. The plan to devour the second half soon thereafter was often foiled by a severe case of chill blains. Thus the second half had to be carefully buried deep within the mellow roll stacks to be purloined again at a more appropriate time.

The store was relatively small but Tom took great pride in having secured a dealership in Peterborough boats and motors a large dust covered boat and motor filled 1/3 of the floor space. In this regard one week day I arrived and was stunned to find Tom had returned midsummer in person and was bearing a face broadly lit up in smiles. This signaled what was to be a mammoth occasion. Upon being commanded to lift the heavy stern end and help remove the display boat out of the store I concluded that Tom had actually sold a boat. This being said in the 3 years I worked there to my knowledge Tom did in fact sell only this one 1 boat but no motors.

Tom was usually gruff and demanding the few times I encountered him. He was of small stature, walked with a limp on a heavily metal braced right leg. He dressed in shirt his sleeves and a wool vest no matter the temperature. Creased navy pants, dirty shoes with scuff marks on the toes that threatened to become holes and a battered fedora completed the picture.

Tom McMurphy was many things but none made him a capable owner/manager of a general store. Tom spent almost all summer many miles away working on sand dredges, as a crew on commercial fishing boats and several other unrelated jobs as suited his fancy. Rumours were rampant about evenings he spent frolicking doing God knows what in dives in God knows where. During my summers I worked the store under the supervision of his forbearing wife.

Tom's his strictest requirements in his perpetual absentia were as follows:

First without failure I should leave work Friday night having procured heavy ice blocks from a nearby ice house, which I then cut into a variety of sizes and piled to capacity in an ice storage cabinet in the back of the store. Since I did not work Saturdays or Sundays my cousin 'Lauralie the lazy', a behemoth by woman standards, was my substitute. Tom was particularly angry if the lucrative ice business part of the operation failed due to lack of supply at some point during the weekend. It was a sense of amusement to me to watch surreptitiously from the window of a nearby pavilion, weekend customers struggling to heft blocks of ice into their car trunks as a brawny Lauralie stood idly by hands on hips to police each customer as to the amount of ice they removed. Needless to say this was the only source of Ice for the icebox refrigerators of that era. Having Lauralie in mind might I digress momentarily to mention that she had other annoying habits? 0ne of these of particular menace being the uncanny knack of discovering the other hidden ½ of my purloined mellow roll while serving a weekend customer at which point she would vociferously proclaim; "I wonder how this damn thing got here"?

Secondly I should keep a careful eye on the cottager's cars as they drove by to be able to report on those whose cars came from the city back with seats full of groceries. In this way despite his absences he was familiar with the status of customers. Those who made a habit of stocking up with cheaper supplies available in the city were to be treated with a cool deference when they came to make odd purchases they forgot to procure in the city and when they came for a fresh loaf of bread or quart of milk. These pariahs were also to be told that the ice they required for refrigeration had run out and would not be restocked until the next day. This latter demand was never upheld on my watch.

Finally the store shelves were to be kept choc-a-block full to capacity with all the wide variety of goods Tom made available to his customers, obtained from boxes delivered to the storage room behind the rear interior wall of the store. The deportment that I used to serve the customers from all this supply was supposed to be predicated on his second requirement.

Beyond the in store toil with serving customers many diverse duties daily prevailed. Most of these were welcome diversions and provided me opportunities to dilly dally mostly with cars and boats.

But wait there was also a source of annoyance which I propose to divulge first. Many customers purchased gasoline for cars and outboard motors. The majority would happily take the amount of gasoline I provided on good faith. That being that when I pumped the gas they were happy with the accuracy of the level I read from the gradations on the jar atop the pump. On the other hand there were crocks like my uncle, Lauralies Father, who accused me bitterly of cheating him by stopping delivery when the fluid level was slightly above the mark. At this point we both backed away from the pump so that a better parallax sighting was available across the top of the gasoline's surface. No matter where we stood he always waxed vociferously that the fluid was not down to the mark and he was being cheated out of a portion of the prescribed gallonage. To back this up he refused to pay the full amount owing. Of course I had to take this abuse remaining pleasant in so doing. Since gas delivery from a graduated vessel high atop a pump was admittedly somewhat arbitrary any idiot could dispute the attendant's veracity and although I did my best a few like Lauralies father always found fault.

Tom's old 1942 Chevy with the spinner on the steering wheel was my favourite toy and to be honest the required jobs brought me to a new and much higher driving skill level. Its use provided no end of variety and welcome freedom from in store work. During these absences Martha was obliged to serve the customers and knowing her progressive state of malady I endeavoured to spend as little time as possible in my joy filled jobs outside the stores precincts.

Numero Uno and the only daily repetitive job for the Chevy was ice haulage. This involved backing the Chevy and trailer the 50 meters from the stores loading dock up hill to the icehouse. Prior to my job at McMurphy's emporium I had trouble even backing an unattached car into a parking spot on a quiet street. My first few attempts to reach the icehouse were a series with of a wildly fish tailing left and then right as using the steering wheel spinner I frantically over steered in an attempt to follow the recalcitrant trailer. In fact in the first week my results were so abysmal that I gave up about 3/4 from the destination and as a result had to carry 50 kg ice blocks down from the ice house and then sling them using large ice tongs like performing an Olympia hammer throw up and onto the trailer. Humans are nothing if not motivated by the need to avoid self-flagellation and the useless need to swing monstrous ice blocks became my inspiration to perfect my backing up driving skills. This skill was relatively simply perfected when I discovered to abandon the novelty of using the spinner and ceased letting the trailer navigate the car in favour of the opposite procedure. With one hand solidly griping the steering wheel I taught the trailer to move backwards in a relatively driver controlled manner; too bad because I had developed a strong attachment to the steering wheel spinner.

Of course I have missed an important step because who in this modern world has even seen an icehouse? For those of you who think ice comes from little trays in your electrical refrigerator or was retrievable from the corner store as cubes packed in a large plastic bag in their freezer; let me take you back to the days when ice was actually purchased from an ice monger in blocks and placed into the ice box refrigerator as its only coolant.

In my teens Ice houses were buildings not unlike the typical small barn. During the winter at the appropriate time when ice on the lake was of the desired thickness teams of men with long broad bladed large sharp toothed saws mechanically cut 50 kg blocks out of sections of the lakes surface. In those days as the saying goes, 'Men were men' and health clubs were for wimps. These blocks were loaded onto large wagon often still drawn by horses. This product was then driven to the ice house where it was laid in flat layers one on top of the other each layer being kept separated by a scattering of coarse saw dust. The blocks in each layer were likewise kept separate from one another by sawdust that settled into the spaces between individual blocks. The ice house was arbitrarily declared full when the estimated requisite amount of ice sold per season had been reached. Fifty kg blocks of ice separated and insulated by sawdust though perfect for summer storage were too large for the average household icebox. Thus it was my chore when retrieving the daily ice supply to cut each block to the several manageable sizes using a special ice splitting long handle sharp bladed tool again operated by hand. These blocks were then suitable for sale from the ice storage shed that I had filled in the back of the store.

A strange collateral problem had resulted from my summers as an ice monger at McMurphies. Being 5 feet 9 inches and of relatively slight build my shirt size was small to medium with a 15 inch collar. A strange dilemma was slowly becoming apparent. By the end of my second summer my mother was finding that shirts in my size range were either coming with shorter sleeves or my arms had mysteriously grown longer. My arms were now protruding 2 inches below the cuffs with any shirt that fit my other bodily dimensions. We finally hypothesized, which was later confirmed by the doctor, that all the daily ice slinging had caused this phenomenon. The horrifying thought crossed my mind that if this effect continued that in my case evolution was reversing and I was slowly transforming from a bipedal human back into some more primitive creature that would walk on 4 legs!

The reader may remember an earlier mention of an ancient cedar strip boat with a 5 horse power motor that was one of the contrivances that I used in my employment at McMurphies. Lest I leave the impression that its use for the retrieval of the corpse as described above was its sole purpose. Once in a while a good customer from the nearby islands would leave behind one of their bags of groceries or might require the transport of a large block of ice that was too heavy for said cottager to carry and install in their icebox. In such cases the little boat and I were called into service. It goes without saying I never mentioned that their edible purchases resided during transport in the same position as the corpse. I can't even remember whether I washed or disinfected the boat following that horrifying episode.

## The Pecunious Damsel in the Woods

There was a poorly defined tortuous, root and poison ivy strewn path between 2 sleeping cabins in a dense cedar woods. The roots and the poison ivy are of little consequence in the ebb and flow of this epistle so why their intrusion here? As will become apparent this secret byway was used only after total darkness, in a very surreptitiously manner and at odd hours. During one of my walkway meanderings I tripped on a root and fell landing in a particularly dense patch of the poison weed. The consequence was a prolonged bout of violent whole body itching which suspended the about to revealed adventure for a miserable 2 week period.

Rutherford's Point and only God still knows why someone named Rutherford was lumbered with the honour of this unremarkable landmark extends about 2km like a crooked finger out into Lake Huron on the Bruce Peninsula in southern Ontario. The walkway of interest, located about midway out on this prominence, was less than 500m in length.

My father's summer cottage on the south side of this peninsula was accompanied by an unattached sleeping cabin/workshop separated by about 3 m to the west and protruding slightly into the woods. A second cabin, the quarry structure at the north end of the trail, was like a queen's domicile surrounded by woods somewhat more distant in location but belonging to the owner of a nearby cottage on the north side of the point. All this may seem somewhat bromidic but hang in there because an alluring yarn awaits.

It was a case of two opposite lifestyles between my parsimonious father and his opulent, au courant neighbour in the cottage to the north. Despite their proximity I know of no communication that ever passed between these two. This was probably to be expected considering my father's zealous respect for the Christian religion and the behaviour this prescribed. Individuals such as those to the north were well out of bounds in this respect in my father's estimation. The fact that our neighbour and his family attended the nearby campers church on a Sundays made no-never-mind considering that families many supposed 'amoral' transgressions during the week. Thus it makes all the sense in the world that I should avidly court our neighbour's daughter, the damsel in the woods. No, you might logically expect? Then please let me try to explain.

Let's call the damsel in the woods, Zelda since this moniker has that provocative je ne sais quoi quality. From the outset it is crucial to explain that throughout my teens outward appearances ranked relatively low on my reasons for pursuit-of-the opposite-sex list. If you are tempted to think that I must be blind or epicene, don't. Zelda was a stunner but I was more into what pretentious fun and excitement might emanate from a relationship. My rational of lifestyle was to live in the opposite mode from that my worthy parents were trying to impose.

Our first meeting was quite unexpected, taking place when we bumped into one another at the Rutherford's Point community drinking water pump. Zelda's cottage was fully modernized including indoor plumbing, something unusual for cottages the 1940's. Our domicile on the other hand was about as primitive as an early Prairie settlers minus the sod roof. This pump being unmaintained was capricious at best, but this is another fascinating story not relevant here. Zelda of course had no reason to need an outdoor source of outflow from this pump whereas we in our state of facility underdevelopment depended on its use far all our potable water requirements. Turned out that Zelda's family feline preferred the drippings from this water source that accumulated continuously beneath the spout in a muddy puddle to those provided in her own fancy china drinking bowel at the house. So it transpired that one day while Zelda stood guard from the woodland fox while her cat thus salubriously indulged I happened along 2 pails in hand ready to perform my twice daily water procurement chore. But again I digress. Zelda's only interest in me was that I might be a potential source for the fourth for bridge, a pursuit she and her three girl friends were attempting to organize for evenings in her bunk house. At about this time the fox appeared and made a run for the cat and my fortunes took a massive turn for the better when I succeeded in foiling the plot while obtaining as collateral damage a bite on the back of my hand. This occasioned all manner of useless yet welcome concern from my newly discovered friend. There was nothing I could do to offset a pleading that I should proceed to Zelda's house for consultation on this tiny fox induced blemish. Rabies and all other manner of much more minor consequences were predicted as potential problems by her mother and a trip to the doctor was organized. The only doctor in the nearby town was an unhinged alcoholic who just happened to have a cottage; you guessed it on Rutherford's point where he happened to be residing at the time in question. We found him stumbling through a game of tennis with one of his sons. The bleary eyed doctor listened distractedly to the story of the fox bite and rummaging carelessly through his nearby medical bag on a patio chair gave the wound a cursory look and a swipe with an alcohol swab and slapped on a bandage. When questioned by Zelda's mother about the danger of rabies he made a dismissive gesture and returned to his tennis. As we were about to leave he called us back on an afterthought and without explanation reached into his medical bag drew out a syringe and with a palsied hand and gave me an intramuscular upper arm painful injection of a vile looking liquid. Since the treatment for rabies in that era was 5 consecutive daily shots of medication in the stomach area what he had just injected in me bore no relationship to rabies treatment. More evidence to support this conclusion came soon when after returning home I began to feel swimmingly bobble headed in a manner I supposed would be experienced by a drug addict. To be honest I would have felt more confident to have been examined by the consummate town vet who I am certain would have been more proficient in making diagnoses even on a human. My family seemed unperturbed but Zelda and her mother insisted that I should report to them at their cottage at regular daily intervals during the next week!

I knew that I was on to a good thing when I gained Zelda's mothers confidence that I was indeed a nice guy and she was pleased that I was going to be the fourth for bridge with Zelda and her friends. Onwards and upwards as they say and my nightly safaris from my sleeping cabin to the cabin in the woods began and were beginning to persist even when no bridge had been scheduled. BTW I forgot to tell Zelda and her friends that I had never learned how to play bridge. Even after a crash course I took from a book written by a bridge expert I was a lousy bridge player and this may have had something to do with the decrease in the number of foursome get-togethers. I would rather leave it to the reader's imagination what occurred in the cabin when only Zelda and I were present together. My truthful accounts of these encounters would undoubtable be boring by comparison.

I am sure the reader is anxious to know what had become of Zelda's father in this riveting saga. Actually you will have to conclude after the denouement that he fulfilled the most important part. This crusty old reprobate was the owner of a Chrysler dealership in the outskirts of the GTA and he only graced his family and the cottage on weekends. Rumours abounded about his dissolute life on the fringes of the city. But forget about those because the crucial part was that he drove a brand new and different coloured Dodge convertible each time he arrived. These were the piece de resistance of my cottage days.

On Saturday nights there was a dance at a nearby resort pavilion. Zelda and I loved dancing and she was given permission to take the car for these occasions. We always departed early and as soon as we were out of sight of her cottage Zelda let me slide over into the driver's seat to assume control of the driving for the rest of the evening. The summer evening sun shone until 9pm and like true teens with an seductive new toy we drove up and down the resort 4 mile beach attracting and picking up new friends as easily as enticing flies to fetid sticky paper. All except the driver sat on the top of the soft leather seat backs engaging in the most fascinating bumptious repartee. I was without doubt the envy of the beach crowd. When we arrived at the dance I had the pick of any partner and my dancing was fortunately much better than my bridge playing.

Fast forward to the day of reckoning for this newly created beach bum into which I had morphed. One evening as the summer waned toward a conclusion so exploded the days of my new found joy. Upon sneaking as usual to visit my damsel in the woods I arrived to hear a male voice emanating unexpectedly from the cabin. As I got closer and could peer unnoticed through a window I saw this ominous interloper with his arms around Zelda and could you believe it they were even kissing. I retreated quickly full of anguish at the thought that I had been swapped. In trying to rationalize as to what had taken place, for a second I had the 'inspired' thought that maybe this guy was her cousin but when I recalled the intensity of the kissing this wishful thinking quickly expired. Turns out in my distracted euphoria of dancing with every enticing girl at the dance Zelda had zeroed in and was concentrating on one particular partner. Worse this guy came from a wealthy family and was in line to inherit a horse farm. Zelda loved horses, having one of her own. Zelda's horsey substitute not only took my place in the cabin, drove the convertibles on Saturday night, danced every dance with Zelda, he eventually married my former damsel.

Driving my dad's 10 year old ford with the rusted out rocker panels to the dance I went virtually unnoticed. Not surprisingly I reverted at the dance to my usual wallflower capacity with no more ladies willing to even give me a tumble.

PS. Horsey and Zelda are divorced.

## An Auspicious Pinnacle

It was about noon and Jock after finishing his third bowl of Shredded Wheat for the day made an unusual suggestion. "Let's go up into the cottage attic and watch my mum get naked when she comes in from swimming".

A little explanation is necessary before we proceed. Jock's cottage ceilings/attic consisted of loose boards that were by no means laid in a continuous fashion from between the outside walls. These were 1" x 6" planks strewn in diverse directions at random across the ceiling rafters. Non-the-less there had obviously been an intension at some time in the future of adding additional planking to construct a closed in ceiling. However like much of what Johnny, Jock's father had planned when he originally began construction of this edifice, the ceiling was a co-lateral casualty to his employment and bass fishing mania. Be-that-as-it-may a roughed-in staircase led from the floor of the front closet to a small landing in the ceiling. From there an adventurer to this area required skill and great care to transverse the spaces between the loose planking without falling through. The lumber in the area above the main bedroom had been rearranged presumably by Jock at an earlier juncture so a body or two could lie prostrate in obscurity while peeking through a crack at the action below.

Again before proceeding a question must be addressed. Why would anyone want to view his mother in the nude? What thrill is that? It's important to stress that yes Tammy was a looker but she wore such revealing bathing costumes (shocking for the 1940's) that one's imagination could easily fill in the rest. Apparently the answer revolves around the fact that during the week Johnny left his wife unattended except on weekends because of his need to be at home some 140 miles away solving problems as and Insurance Company VP. It devolves that during these absences this bedroom saw enticing extracurricular activities if you know what I mean.

Okay then with those scintillating preliminaries out of the way let's return to our story. At Jock's persistent imploring I was tempted to join him in the ceiling area above this beguiling boudoir. As Tammy was crossing the road from the lake near the cottage Jock was full of instructions on how to avoid being detected. Mainly we were to remain perfectly still and pretending to be viewing a distant horizon so that we would not make a sound during whatever might transpire. Well distant horizons were impossible for me to imagine once Tammy's top was slowly removed. At that point a very different horizon appeared included two auspicious mountains crowned in red pinnacles at which point I jammed my hand to my mouth to suppress my emotions but what leaked out was a childish giggle. End of the good part of the adventure. The gig was up and we were chastised and chastened with a vitriolic lecture on our undoubted depraved woebegone futures. There was no question in my mind but that Tom could so devolve but as for me I was sure my capriciousness was totally decommissioned.

BTW on my next foray to Jocks's cottage I noticed the ceiling had been completed but only over the bedroom area. I wonder how this wonder occurred without Tammy divulging her dialectics.

## Jock's Intellectual Proclivity and Our Survival

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 half-moon cross sectional building standing next to his cottage. It was about 20 ft. long x 10 ft. wide at the bottom and rising about 6 ft. 5 inches at the apogee. Officially called a Quonset hut, the inside ceilings were papered wall to wall and floor to ceilings with enlarged photos from Sir James famous 1931 monograph "Stars in Their Courses".

Jock was what we would now call a child prodigy. At the age of 14 he was into solving mathematical matrices and Fourier transformations; a level of computation that would have, in the 1940's, boggled the mind of many a third year university mathematics student. Lying on our backs on Jock's bed, many a weekend rainy summer's afternoon or after a working day at McMurphies, Jock verbalized in nauseating detail about the now erroneous 'steady state cosmology' theory (Now preempted by the 'big bang' theory) that formed the basis of Sir James cosmological research. In illustration of this diatribe Jock's 4 ft. 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 engage the side of my head. Worse often coming to a particularly acute point he would ask me a related question which I normally totally bombed in response; at which point with disgust and vituperative reprimand I was bawled from the premises out into the downpour.

With the exception of Jock, his father, Johnny and an aunt whose name slips my mind, Jocks entire family was composed of heavy drinkers with most being borderline alcoholics. Then there was Uncle Samuel the lecherous full blown binge drinking alcoholic pest. During the week days Dr. Samuel was a respected Guelph Ontario dentist. However come weekends the bottle seldom left his precincts with predictable results. Jock was his favourite nephew and if he caught jock unawares kept him busy catching baby frogs for his frequent fishing jaunts. Also as might be expected Uncle Charlie drunkenly mismanaged his boat, motor, fishing and related equipment. Jock being a boy of mechanical talents that paralleled his prodigious mathematical capabilities was often high-jacked to affect any necessary repairs. All that being said Jock and I kept on constant alert to Uncle Samuel's approach aided by a complex system of mirrors Jock had ingeniously hidden by the roadway. Thereby we could view the road from almost any spot on Jock's property and attempt an escape before Uncle Samuel's fateful arrival.

Related to Uncle Samuels states of constant navigational incapacity Jock was frequently sent to execute his retrieval form some area on the lake where Uncle Charlie and his boat load of 'fishing' companions, all female relations, 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 feet 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 incapacitated his motor.

For an operation like this we took Jock's 18 ft. double layered 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, when conditions could change in a hurry. With the directions we received the rescue would be in an area beyond the normal confines of the immediate bay. In other words we were headed out westerly to an area of open Lake Huron waters several miles out and 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 that we needed to traverse to reach the open water before bearing to the north for another mile or so before arriving at the disaster site. Both motors were running at full cry with a beating resonance typical of the fact that these units were mismatched in horse power and in speed of propeller rotation. The smaller Martin went into cavitation from time to time as result of being dragged forward at excessive speed by the larger motor. Yet it dug back in with reassurance that gave a sense of 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 sheet falling over our craft and the surrounding area. Without warning we were entombed in one of those fogs that sometimes roll in suddenly from 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 conditions the wind had died and the breath that remained was from offshore; thus transporting us slowly but relentlessly further into the open lake. The wind was so slight that there was no clearly defining ripple by which could determine our direction. It was about 3pm in the afternoon when this disaster struck and by 8:30pm when darkness began to devolve and we remained fog bound. I began to despair. Tom on the other hand remained remarkably calm.

Fogs generally lift when the sun sets and such was the case about 30 minutes later. At this point we must have been miles from 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 really nailed the full depth of his chronic mental discombobulation for me was when he asked if we should pop along and recover Uncle Samuel on the way back!

An Important aside—Remember this is the 1940's with no cell phones or other means of wireless communications available to pull from one's pocket. 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 but who ever thought to bother with such a device for normal inshore boating.

"Sir James Jeans to the rescue", Jock vociferously proclaimed. With that statement my eyes drifted up to the now cloudless heavens and immediately a perfect replica 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 I was embalmed in on those many rainy days lying on our backs on Jock's bed staring at this cosmic panorama reproduced in the boring photos on the ceiling. Yet this time his words were less nauseating and my mind did not wander. We motored for what seemed like hours when a familiar headland suddenly loomed out of the darkness. "There she be, Chirt's Point just as estimated"; Jock unnecessarily affirmed. Again just as planned there on the rocks nearby waving 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. He 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 this to be a happy experience. While we struggled to effect the retrieval without his assistance he felt it propitious to launch a vociferous cannonade of frustrated invective both at us and the deadheads who had 'left him there to rot'.

That night as I slumbered I dreamed of a world free of navigable bodies of water and with billions of stars in the sky. But most importantly I gave thanks for Sir James Hopwood Jeans and his most devoted emissary, Jock.

## A Delightful Escape

One full summer I was not favoured by any friendship from Jock. Several times I attempted to connect only to discover that he had found a new friend and that I would be an unwelcome intrusion in consort with this congruous duo. Later it became evident that his new companion was free every day and acutely intellectually astute and hence more compatible than I with Jock's timetable and cerebral nature. I often wondered how this new friend fit in with Jock's sometimes unpalatable tasks to wit the rescue of Uncle Samuel. I worked week days at McMurphies, suffered from poor social skills and was unable to find a substitute. Thus it was a delight when upon our arrival for our first cottage day next summer, Jock came to visit and it was like old times again, almost.

Remember the dissolute nature of most of Jock's relatives with Uncle Samuel as the kingpin? It was hence unremarkable to discover that Jock the child prodigy had inherited some characteristics that would redirect some of his exorbitant energies toward activities less recondite. Additionally it appeared that my substitute, jock's choice of friend the previous summer was a bit of a gad about. In this regard several significant changes were evident in Jock's proclivities.

Out with the old and in with the new. Sir James Hopwood Jeans no longer dominated Jock's Quonset hut ceiling. Gone was the universe of stars and planets that had formerly papered this expanse, together with the accompanying incessant series of painful lectures. Moving in to this locale were photos of famous Jazz artists of the time interspersed here and there with a pulchritudinous movie star. Still present were the rainy day lectures promulgated will lying on our back on Jock's bed emphatically emphasized with the odd poke to my dosing head.

Another change, cause unknown, was the differing emplacement of Uncle Samuel within the fabric of our adventures. This year every rescue we performed in retrieving this inveterate weekend inebriate from his rocky crash sites was accompanied by a promise to lend us his car and to contribute monetarily to our adventures. Jock was now of driving age but had failed several attempts at obtaining a drivers license. No matter, Uncle Samuel was in no position to bargain so Jock was never questioned about the absence of this necessity. Although I had acquired my own driving permit on the second try Jock disallowed my appeals to be permitted to do the driving.

Of course my curiousity was peaked as to the reason this 'Child' prodigy had failed his several driving tests. Knowing Jock as well as I did his refusal to allow me to take control was no surprise. Jock had little respect for any authority that questioned his overflowing basket of superior capabilities. In his mind by definition he had uniquely phenomenal talent in all regards compared to any of mine.

Driving proved to be an exception. As it turned out Jock might be compared with Uncle Samuel in a need for rescue, in this case while in command of a motor vehicle. Another exception was our mishaps occurred while he was stone cold sober. The fly in this ointment was that unlike an accident at sea a mishap on the road could involve the attendance of the police. To make a long story short Jock suffered from the problem of talking in a prolific fashion while driving. What made this of particular danger was that he had the habit of talking for long periods while looking at the eyes of the passenger instead of forward concentrating on the road. Fortunately there were few cars on these roads in the 1940's and any mishap we incurred was of the single car variety. We mostly had mishaps involving the deep ditches typical of rural back roads or a minor detour into roadside trees usually of the supple and insubstantial cedar variety. Non-the-less we invariably needed attendance of a tow truck to return Uncle Samuel's vehicle to the road. This cost us nothing as Jock had some mysterious payback arrangement with the local garage which will become apparent later. Jock was, as in almost everything it seemed, the master of repairs and body work. But even If we returned Uncle Samuels car visibly damaged, if it was in a drivable state nothing was said. In any case the requisite repairs always appeared by the weekend following.

Jock had apparently developed an interest in the opposite sex during the previous summer and winter. For this reason on Saturday evenings after Jock had coerced Uncle Samuel out of the car and some pocket money as repayment for services rendered we were often to be found sniffing around the nearby large beach resort and all the delights of the typical resort amenities found therein. The highlight of such excursions was attendance at the weekly dance held Saturday evenings. Music was live and provided by an excellent lively local dance band quartet. This group however was prone to making a particular serious error in judgment; they disappeared for smokes and 'soft drinks' for a period during the intermission. What's that you say? Is this not a common occurrence for musicians at such intermissions? Of course but under the circumstance of Jock's presence this practice could be catastrophic for the member's egos. Jock's prodigious range of talents had long ago left my own ego in tatters so I felt a kinship in this regard these musicians.

Moments after the band disappeared Jock would slide quietly onto the piano bench at which point the quality of the music emitted from that instrument took a remarkable upturn. It was a bit like having Oscar Peterson subbing for the local amateur. After the first few rollicking bars of some Jazz classic the crowd began to encircle the clavichord. Others hit the dance floor with a much upbeat level of enthusiasm. It's a well-known fact that Beethoven played pianos with such vigour he would often cause their destruction. Jock however managed to pound away filling the large dance hall with immense levels of captivating sound without occasioning such annihilation.

The difficulty arose when the Quartet members attempted to return from intermission and found the patrons offered serious opposition to the impending change. This presented a serious and unexpected quandary to poor Jock. In his view this interlude was simply an opportunity to for a moments reprieve from his deprived state of piano access, during the 2 month spell of summer holidays. He had planned to quietly slip away as soon as intermission finished.

Even in the 1940's dancehall patrons were a lively group, their normal high spirits often having been elevated to feverish levels from the contents of pocket flasks. A jostling session ensued whereby the Quartet affiliates were denied access to their instruments by a few of the more over stimulated members of the gathering. In a state of embarrassed disbelief Jock attempted to depart the growing agitation and found his way blocked by the adoring crowd. The answer today would be simple and direct. The ever-present bouncers would evict the source protagonists of this problem in double quick time, problem solved. In the 1940's such individuals were unavailable due to infrequency of need.

Fortunately as with most standoffs time becomes the deciding factor. In this case those blocking Jock's exit finally relented and parted way under the pressure of the level of his obvious embarrassment. Although the quartet was awarded by winning this standoff, Jock was really the undeclared prize-holder judged by the magnitude of the number of his entranced dance partners. I was as usual his unrecalled sidekick and suffered by having to thumb my way home while Jock drove away after the dance with Uncle Samuel's car full of admirers. I wondered if these occupants knew or even cared about Jock's lack of driver's license and his propensity for landing in ditches. Since ebullient conversation causing distracted driving was always Jock's downfall in these accidents I would have bet a packet that tonight a trip to the ditch was inevitable. On the other hand would this mooning lot even notice or care?

## 'Food' for Thought

Jake got a ringer—Mr. Me's strange disappearances—Mrs. Northerland's Hole—A sheep's Head on Bills cloths line—The big rock off Chiefs—Bob Northerland's a jerk—Indian Channel. What do these all have in common and why are they of any interest?

Summers are short in Southern Ontario. I don't mean by this that our summers do not abide by the seasonal norm of June 21 to September 21. But For all intents and purposes 1940's summer lasted from June 29 to Sept 6 or there about as dictated by the 2 month hiatus from school provided by the profligacy of Ontario Ministry of Education. It was seldom that cottagers had winterized cottages. Still some hardy souls extender their cottage season but only on weekends from the Queen's birthdate in late May to Thanksgiving. But again so what?

The item of most crucial importance in those days, the Bass fishing season, opened on June 29 and closed when the water temperature became low, usually late in September, at which time the Bass entered a type of hibernation during which their interest in chasing fishermen's offerings ceased. Boats had limited utility in those long past days. The average horsepower of an outboard being in the 5 to 10 range meant that multifarious water sports as they are today were mostly absent and boating for the most part consisted of sailing or sport fishing. At our cottage area Bass fishing was revered above most all else.

As is the case with many hobbies that involve an element of luck most devoted fisherpersons had their own conception on where and how to maximize the size of both the number caught and the fish themselves. As things played out in our vicinity, with the exception of hired guides, luck was much the most important variable in the fishing equation. Even devotees to erudition provided by sources such as solunar tables never seemed to have any better results than those of us who departed for a patch of fishing anytime the spirit moved us.

To belie this generally inviolable reality there were a very few who seemed to succeed more regularly than the average. Strangely the rest of us seldom upgraded our meager result even having sought direct advice from these high achievers. Many like me assuming that the proffered advice was a lie would attempt surreptitious shadowing and other devious methods of divining the truth. The truth was mainly a 4 part mystery ie. location, bait, fishing technique, time of day and the weather conditions.

Probably the most astounding and what would appear the easiest above average spot for anyone to locate would be Mrs. Sutherlands Hole. I apologize for the apparent crudity of this name but as will become apparent it is excellent nomenclature. Mrs. Northerland still fished both morning and evening using minnows and unlike the other high yield fisherpersons on my list the location of her glory hole was obvious from many angles on the shore and in addition was only about 500m away at the furthest point. There were many focal points that could be used to 'triangulate' the location. Most embarrassing of all was that Mrs. Northerland showed me exactly the 2 trees and flag pole in front of her cottage that I could triangulate to locate the position. Upon receiving this information I went to the described location and using minnows verified personally that a quantity of large size Bass could in fact be retrieved at this exact location just as she consistently did. I then assured all the others who had this same interest that the coordinates she gave, when properly lined up, were accurate in locating the hole that would produce the promised largess.

A few days later, several to whom I secreted the details for finding this location turned up at my door in a hostile mood. Separately on several occasions each had been to my exact described location without producing a single result. These surly protagonists then marched me to a waiting boat after which I was compelled to take them to Mrs. Northerland's hole. When properly positioned to my satisfaction I was presented with a minnow baited rod and reel and told to catch them some fish. One minute lead to the next, the mood growing uglier at every tick. Not a fish even nibbled at my hook. After several minor positional adjustments and an hour had passed with no results I was motored back to my dock and unceremoniously dumped out at my dock. I could tell from their demeanors that they assumed I had purposely misled them. Honestly, dear reader, I was as shocked as my tormentors at our lack of success. Meanwhile to rub salt in my wounds Mrs. Northerland continued her revered success.

Well to make a long story short for as many years as I went to our cottage each summer this phenomena repeated itself. Mrs. Northerland always caught her limit of fish at her now legendary hole and the rest of us remained skunked even though we peppered the area time and again. The answer my friends turned out to be a deception. Are we really surprised? Do inchworms have legs? Some years although I was no longer a cottage goer, my university summer jobs having taken me to the Saskatchewan oil fields, I ran into a former cottage friend at Prince Albert Airport. We got talking about our days fishing at the cottage and this friend said; "By the way you remember about our problems finding Mrs. Northerland's hole"? "Turns out the old girl had her flagpole moved just after giving you the correct coordinates"!

Many years later and after Mrs. Northerland had passed on, I mentioned this Prince Albert garnered story to my son who was an avid snorkeler as well as fisherman. Out of curiosity he decided to go diving in the vicinity of Mrs. Northerland's hole and to no one's surprise he discovered a deep hole filled with fish about a meter of so across that dropped down in the shape of a 'V' at the joining of 2 reefs. This hole was the only entrance to an abundance of fish friendly territory under the reefs.

Mrs. Northerland had a son named Graham. Being a well-respected lawyer in the small Ontario city of New Berlin I naturally never doubted his veracity. But as we have already discovered the sport of fishing is very taxing on parameters such as honesty.

Graham had a reputation as an unorthodox and very successful fisherman. No matter her proven success he belittled his late mother's penchant for preferring still fishing. It was his stated view that fishing while anchored in a single position using about 10 m of line was about as challenging and enjoyable as catching fish in a barrel while watching paint peel. For a young man with plenty of money fishing required a resplendent boat with plenty of power together with the latest in fishing gear. Time had passed and we had now reached the 1980's so this meant outboard motors in the 100 horse power range and a 6 m fiberglass showpiece hull. He assured anyone who asked that the trolling of fancy lures at great distances behind his boat while navigating with impunity in reef filled waters was a challenge much more suited to his talents. He never returned without snagging several large bass.

I spent several days in what I estimated was the same area using my still tatty boat and 10 horse power motor and old fashioned fishing equipment but copying I thought exactly his likely route and trolling with lures and plenty of line. For my troubles I always got plenty of snags but in my case these were my lures catching on rocks which as any fisherperson knows well is the bane of all such methods of bass fishing. To retrieve my lure I would have to turn around and try to steer the boat using elbows and knees to the area of my snag while winding in about 50m of line. Try this punishment a few times and your desire for fishing takes a decided nosedive.

Of course I opined there is a better way to indulge my fantasy that I might become as successful a fisherman as Graham Northerland if only I could inveigle him to take me along one day. I guess I should have figured 'like mother like son'. No the following incident did not involve moving a flag pole but in its own right was just as deceitful. To my surprise I had no problem with commandeering a trip on his next fishing foray.

With obvious pride and great skill Graham treated me to a ride at breakneck speeds to his sacred location. Knowing that the area we traversed was filled with shallow lying rocks and reefs my heart was continuously in my throat. Upon arrival as expected we then began to troll. I let out about 50 meters of line as instructed and trolled on the left side of the boat. Graham for his part I assumed was 'trolling' on the right. For some reason I was becoming snagged on reefs multitudinous times in stark contrast to Graham who suffered no such fate. Each time we had to break off the fishing to retrieve my lure Graham became more and more impatient and perturbed. Finally with a huff and a curse he told me there was no way we could catch fish if I persisted in this unskilled fashion and with that he rushed us back to his dock and I was expeditiously dismissed.

Despite being embarrassed I also had a hint of suspicion that some misdirection and perhaps other devious actions might have occurred. So bring on faithful son Jon for another investigation. Commensurate with his above proven snorkeling skills, to ferret out Mrs Northerlands deceit, Jon Jr. was also an excellent swimmer.

I had noted the presence of a shrub laden clumping of large boulders and exposed reef nearby the area that Graham and I had unsuccessfully trolled a few days before. Knowing Graham's preferred schedule for his fishing trips, about 30 min before Graham was to leave for his next fishing trip, I surreptitiously left Jon hiding on the above mentioned shrub laden islet. Upon Graham's arrival Jon Jr. was aghast to find that instead of trolling the area as he had indicated to those multitudes who asked; Graham threw out the anchor at his own predetermined location and began still fishing just like his mother many years before.

Yep, as you might have guessed he began catching fish. However he did not anticipate what was about to happen next. Jon Jr. had quietly slipped into the water and began swimming toward Graham's boat. To avoid premature detection Jon's technique was to swim under water for long distances surfacing very quietly only as necessary for a quick breath meanwhile maneuvering so that he could approach facing Graham's back. Next thing Graham knew he received a tiny tug on his line followed by a series of vicious yanks that almost bent his pole double. Initially he must have presumed he had the most gigantic bass of all time.

It is now necessary to pause in this story to remind/inform readers fishing line is monofilament was available in a variety of strengths, the weakest being 1kg. test and ranging in fresh water fishing up to the 20kg. range. It turned out that Graham was a fisherman that liked heavy equipment so he opted for line in the higher test/strength range. This I thought was because he knew that a 3 kg bass could put up quite a battle and the heavier line was helpful in this regard as well as being protection for loss of lures if he became snagged while trolling.

Now back to Jon Jr. and his maneuvers.

Because of Grahams high strength filament Jon was able to pull the line so viciously that the whole expensive fishing outfit was yanked out of Grahams grip and appeared to disappear beyond recovery range into the depths. It was then that Jon shot up to the surface on Graham's side of the boat and his sudden appearance scared the Hell out of Graham. Before Graham had time even to recover and think of a curse, Jon handed him up his saturated, badly tangled, equipment and sporting a wily smirk stated; "with compliments from my Dad".

## An Unusual Type of Sheep's Head

The Basterton family had 3 cottages on Hermit Island joined by a rudimentary often waterlogged half washed out causeway that joined it after a short patch potholed gravel road to the main road at our summer resort. It amazed me that this relatively well-to-do family and their similarly moneyed neighbours put up with this treacherous approach to this island that seemed to have become the main jurisdiction of all the local cottaging highbrows. Driving around the island and observing the vehicles in the driveways was like touring the used car lot of a Mercedes Benz dealership and yet they daily put these showboats through a torture test that at albeit infrequent time be capable of providing difficulty for army vehicles. The reason for this seeming neglect became obvious in that it discouraged sightseers from disturbing Hermit Island quietude.

Now the above might suggest to the reader that Hermit island residents were as a group making a show of elevating themselves above the common resident and this was true in most cases. However the 3 cottages of Bastersons were quite the opposite. They were on Hermit Island because they could afford the luxury but were in all other behaviour just ordinary Joes. All this verbage is essential to set the scene for the following tale.

Since childhood I had been friends with the Bastersons both at the cottage and at home in the city. In fact before their elevation to Hermit Island they had spent summers ensconced in a humble cottage next to ours. This had built friendly rivalries in boating, sailing, swimming and fishing particularly between myself, Mr. Basterson Sr. and his son Phil.

Putting last things first, as the years went by each Labour Day weekend at the local regatta the 3 of us entered all the events in which we were capable of competing. These included swimming, canoeing, distance running and sailing. I never won. Perhaps this was because I was a lousy athlete and/or more likely the Bastersons conspired to commit fouls such as tipping my canoe, or boxing me in and in swimming events grabbing my hands or feet. Let's face it the consistency of my losses meant there had to be some perfidy involved I just couldn't put my finger on its exact nature.

In my favourite competition the long distance running race the question of a case of interference was unnecessary as Phil was clearly a better runner than I. None-the-less I had a dispiriting experience when one year I set it as my goal to beat Phil in this event, a point I made clear by bragging openly about my previous 6 months of intensive training which had resulted in knocking 1/3 off my usual time for the distance. I had calculated from previous races that Phil could be beat if I could acquire the above time reduction goal. I knew that Phil was enough of a natural athlete that he needn't bother with training to win these races and I also knew he hated training. Additionally I refused to enter any other completions to conserve my energy.

That year as soon as the race began I could sense a new smoothness in my strides, an ease in establishing a faster pace from the beginning and I noted Phil had fallen far behind. The route was along a snowmobiling trail which in the summer was used as a walking trail thus providing an excellent run through the woods. The only problem was there were a great many contestants on this relatively narrow twisting course and it was impossible to keep track of any particularly competitor throughout the race. But so what, Phil had obtained a bad start and unlike in previous years I kept up a strong steady pace and still could feel ample vigour remaining for a dash to the finish. So imagine my chagrin when upon finishing the race with a breath denuding sprint I was greeted by an offer of a handshake from Phil who was standing waiting while breathing calmly as though just getting out of bed. Of course this was impossible and most certainly the answer was that I had been subject of another Basterson deceit. Many possibilities marched through my mind some as wild as a hidden motor bike or race horse along the trail. However the most probable was that he had done some prior research and discovered a shortcut, probably an obscure branch of the snowmobile trail that I had failed to note in the heat of the race. Yes, upon an investigation that I made by a subsequent careful walking perusal of the course I came upon a branch leading off to the right. This had to be the answer because of its initial direction it was a ringer for my postulated short cut. Imagine my vexation when after the expected short walk, instead of leading me to the finish line I came out onto a cow path leading to a farmer's barn. Damn Phil Basterson anyway.

Ah but at the cottage sooner than later it all comes back to fishing and stories related thereto. Surprisingly especially with mine, some are actually true.

The reader should be becoming used to Basterson chicanery. Thus it must be difficult to conceive of any truth ever emerging from this father and son fountainhead of mumbo jumbo, a tendency one would naturally expect even rarer when fishing is concerned. Mr. Basterson Sr. was a particularly hard nut to crack when he had the mind to render an audience dumb struck by tails of fabled fishing exploits. Despite his reputation for altering the facts this gentleman being handsome, athletic, smooth-talking he was a personage that exuded the ambiance associated with an archetypical sportsman not unlike the proverbial salesman who is repudiated to be able to sell refrigerators to Eskimos. In fact it was difficult for even hard bitten me to doubt some of the magnificent exploits he described.

Having been fooled once too often I decided to set a trap that I was certain would render Basterson Sr.'s fishing exploit tales forever null and void. The plot went something like this. A group of indigenous Canadians live on a large point of land near our cottage area. By law they are allowed to use nets to fish for even game fish like the fabled Black Bass so favoured by all the local cottage fisherpersons. I came to know and be befriended by several of these kindly indigenous folk and became particularly close to a young man whose name was Bob. Many times I had accompanied them in their boats as they went net fishing and thus became acquainted enviously with the large specimens of Black Bass that were often trapped in this manner. My mission was to have Bob, and a netted behemoth Bass help me create my ruse. For anyone other than an Indigenous Canadian to possess a netted bass was against the law but Hell this was worth the risk.

Oh but I have neglected to mention an important item essential to the scheme. From time to time a fisherperson has the misfortune while angling for Black Bass to hook a fish called a Sheepshead. This very large species has the distinction of not only being very large but is in addition to many fearsomely ugly. Most fisherpersons are so repulsed by these abominations that they simply sacrifice their lures by cutting their lines instead of having to affect its release by unhooking by hand. While netting Bass, Bob and his friends commonly entrapped sheepshead and I requested a particularly ugly specimen to be saved for the Basterson caper as well.

Now we arrive at the "hook" of this tale. One Saturday afternoon, before a dinner party planned for that night I inveigled Basterson Sr. to accompany me for a few hours of fishing. Before leaving my cottage I arranged a fish cradle (fish cradles had become common for landing large fish for providing a method of humane catch and release) hidden beneath one side of my boat containing Bob's borrowed behemoth bass idling full of energy. I had the apparatus rigged so the fish would not be dragged ruthlessly through the water even at fast operating speeds.

After an hour or so of fruitless trolling I suggested my partner go into the cabin and fetch us a beer, but I told him I would also watch his line so he needn't reel in. The beer cooler lid had been jimmied to render it almost impossible to open thus giving me more time to complete the scheme. Meanwhile I madly reeled in Basterson's line, firmly hooked the prize bass to his lure and played out his line. Then I began shouting that his line was behaving like it had become snagged in the rocks and I needed his help while I maneuvered back to the area of the snag. This brought Basterson back at a run. Grabbing the violently straining pole he immediately discounted my contention that he was trapped in the rocks. It was an epic battle lasting nearly I hour before he coaxed his prize into the now empty fish cradle. I stated that he should get out the fish scale, weigh his prize, take a picture and then we could release it back to the depths. He was having none of this suggestion. It was important for the sake of my plan that he would refuse this proposal and return with this fish to his dock. I was so certain Basterson would insist on this course of action that I had never considered he would agree to a release. In fact as I was equally sure was intended Basterson would tie the cradled fish to his dock and after the appropriate bragging session at tonight's party would lead a progression of his guests to see the proof of his fisherman's talent.

But wait a minute there was no way Basterson was going to successfully verify this fantasy in fact he would be so embarrassed that his bogus bragging would forever come to a screeching halt. My plan had included having my friend Bob arrive surreptitiously while everyone was distracted with dinner and before the evenings after dinner conversation sessions over brandy and coffee could begin, place a sheepshead in the cradle while removing the bass. Everthing was as you would expect was going to plan. At a propitious moment when all guests were relaxing and Basterson Sr. had become the center of attention and the familiar palaver about fishing exploits began exuding from his imagination. This time however he had no idea that he was vociferously digging his fishing tales grave. I could hardly prevent myself from breaking out into some mirthful spasm. Now came my moment of triumph, the command procession down to the spot lit dock to view the proof of his story. I tarried behind standing instead at a point where I could fully enjoy the disaster.

Disaster? There was no disaster, only expressions of praise and delight, as each of Basterson's hoodwinked disciples viewed this trophy bass still firmly ensconced in its cradle.

There are times in everyone's life when disillusionment delivers a crushing blow. Bob my good friend had failed to perform as expected. Worse as I morosely turned into my drive there in the lit by the high beams of my headlights was the Sheepshead thrashing about in the breeze! Of course it always comes down to money. My "good friend" Phil Basterson, also being a buddy of Bob's, got wind of my plan and "bought" my Sheepshead and with that action Bob's noncompliance in my scheme. I think I said this before but damn that Phil Basterson!

## A Canines Delight

There was of course a non-human family member that enjoyed our cottage as much as we, perhaps even more. These cottage adventure stories would be left incomplete without this ancillary tale.

A state of somnolence had finally enveloped the occupants of the family station wagon as we neared the end of a grueling 3.5 hour drive from our Willowdale home. As we began the last half hour of the journey, exhaustion engendered by all the normal day's activities in the city, the rush through dinner, frantic packing up for a weekend at the cottage having been exacerbated by the usual cacophony, restlessness and mishaps of the car's occupants had finally sapped most of our energy. Even Smudge, our female black Labrador Retriever, after several violent bouts of car sickness with equally odorous offerings from son Jon, had succumbed to a state of unconsciousness.

It began with a series of loud snuffles. What was fated to be only a very brief moment of this quietude was about to erupt into an even more riotous phase of disruption and ear splitting sound. Dogs unlike humans seem to be able to emerge for no apparent reason, from the depths of unconsciousness to immediate full throttled activity. Thus as I made a routine right turn off the main highway onto the county road to our cottage still ½ hour away, Smudge without warning was suddenly in full cry while stumbling about over recumbent bodies from which emanated loud displeasure. Her behaviour pattern was consistent winter through summer on every cottage trip. Despite many family discussions accompanied by expert opinion it was never clear how this dog could sense that her favourite destination, the cottage, was at this particular moment, proximate. There was nothing to be done but to put up with this 45 kg canines frenzy until with a sigh of relief we turned into the cottage driveway and opened the car doors.

What would be your guess? Might a formula one car starting from full stop, speed over the 30 meters interval from our car door to the lakes edge in a mere blink of an eye? Even so this vehicle would arrive only to see a tail wagging, black body, which had started from the same spot already splashing contentedly in the water. Contrast this with the 30 min. or so coaxing required enticing this same dog the same distance into the car for the return drive to Willowdale a few days later.

No doubt remains in my mind that dogs like Smudge, possess a sensing faculty that is not available in humans. Her ability, as outlined above, to know the cottage is nigh even when 20 km distant from this our destination was only one example of this fact. Strangely examples that confirm my thesis of the existence of this faculty were most commonly observed in smudges case during our visits to the cottage.

Smudge prefered a ride in a boat with a family member more than any other mode of transportation. You could be excused if you thought that this meant a ride in a fast boat with the wind blowing through her hair. But no any craft that floats on water would be just fine. This posed many problems. Despite many attempts at subterfuge Smudge managed to outwit our attempts to leave her behind. In theory locking her inside the cottage each time we wished to use a boat would be a certain failsafe method of keeping her away. But in practice the sound of scraping a metal object across a blackboard at ear spitting levels would be music to the ears compared to Smudges vocal lamentations that seem to amplify through any solid barrier. Suffice it to say that to keep the neighbours from alerting the police to this source of excessive noise the approach was a nonstarter. But we know that humans are deviously ingenious in cases like this. Trouble was that Smudge always seemed to be one step ahead of our carefully devised schemes. If we did make a clean getaway Smudge had one surefire method of ensuring she would finally prevail.

In desperation and at considerable expense we hired a boat slip at a marina several km from the cottage; presuming that even if we left Smudge free on the cottage property we could launch our boats free from any trouble. Oh yeah! On the first expedition made from this locale we were hardly underway when we got a frantic shore to ship call from a neighbour that Smudge had plunged into the water as we were leaving the cottage driveway and was as we spoke heading for open water. There was nothing for it but to head to pick up Smudge before her relentless boat seeking journey might lead to her drowning. Retrieving an exhausted Smudge from the water over the side into the boat was a horror story all of its own. A 'victim' was required to jump into the lake since Smudge could not be pulled up and over the side of the boat without risking an injury to her heavy, foot thrashing, furry wet carcass. Smudge assumed that the human body had been provided as her private ladder and immediately began a claw slashing assent before any move could be made to try a boosting maneuver. The result was predictable. The poor victim in the water was half drowned, covered with painful red striped wounds and had to be dragged coughing and sputtering back into the boat.

We soon gave up all charades and Smudge became a full time participant in our marine oriented activities. Do dogs laugh? I swear Smudge has that capability.

# Chapter 3

# Here and There, This and That

## The Driving Lesson

Shrinkage of the body is a sorry fact of life during aging, usually annoyingly accompanied by rounded shoulders, soft bodily protrusions slumping downward with the force of gravity and stiffened fingers that refuse to totally unravel and many other arthritic related conditions. Strange thoughts also begin to permeate the mind and for some, can lead to embarrassing statements and deeds. My aged Grandma sometimes had odd conceptions. For example she had it her mind that she had run over and killed a policeman in New York City. I was aware of this because one Sunday she stated that she had mentioned this during Confession. This was impossible of course because she had never learned to drive and at no time even been to America. Nonplused I enquired as to how she was to achieve absolution? Well she replied the Priest after sputtering several times stated it was not my fault because we drive on the left side in Australia, but to play it safe I had better say an Our Father and repeat 23 Hail Mary's.

That would have been that except that the following week my mother announced that her Uncle Nick having recently attended a séance received the message that a deceased New York policeman was suggesting that Grandma should learn to drive and that Uncle Nick was to provide her with the requisite lessons. Of course I sprang into action to attempt to nix this potential disaster. Jumping on my Blackbird with a quick look at my watch; "Wow 10 am he's sure to be at Mass". I pellmelled it as fast as possible to St Mary's. "Not there"? I did happen to notice what appeared to be crumpled metal adorning the front yard. Someone suggested I try the Burrabliss Pub. Upon banging open the recalcitrant door it was obvious something had gone wrong. It was not particularly strange that uncle Nick's leg was in a thigh length cast and his head was replete with a loosely adhering blood soaked bandages; it was that I thought I was hearing him yelling hysterically, "It's my shout". Something had obviously flipped in his mind since everyone knew Uncle Nick was tight as a tick. Yes he had definitely reached a high level of delirium. When I reached the bar Uncle Nick was mumbling incoherently about somebody's Grandma slumped over a steering wheel in the remains of what had been his brand new Holden now crumpled and covered in fencing lying in the Parish front yard. Not being able to make any sense of Uncle Nick, I managed to discover the following from one of his mates. In a flash of genius, that morning, Uncle Nick thought he might couple their trip to mass with Grandma's first driving lesson. Apparently after copious detailed instructions with Grandma at full attention while sitting bent over and slung low in the driver's seat, Uncle Nick labouriously assisted in placing her arthritic hands firmly on the steering wheel. Helpfully he them powered up the car and shifted into gear. With the accelerator to the floor and the engine whining at full cry Grandma suddenly let out the clutch. No one can properly describe in any detail the ensuing events, but suffice it to say wheels skidding, the engine shrieking, cars streaking by, blaring horns, careening through the main intersection, and momentous bumps with a final flight through a fence and a collision with a mallee clump ending in abrupt termination, were just a few of the highlights. No word on Grandma as yet except she was glimpsed limping into the sanctuary. It's probably safe to assume that although Grandma did reach the intended destination as planned her performance failed to rate a reprise.

## The BBQing in the Snow Conundrum

Have you ever BBQed steaks at -10 degrees C? If not you really don't know what you have been missing! Below a certain point all temperatures feel about the same and -10 is about that tipping point.

Darkness descends at just around suppertime in Toronto in late fall and winter. The filth encrusted dim bulb that illuminates the BBQ area in an open area of our back garden is a pretty sad source of illumination. But why any sane person should have a predilection for cooking outdoors at this time of year is a conundrum.

There are many natural cold related contingencies that wait to defeat even the most intrepid of enthusiasts.

Musty smells are rare in an outdoor setting in the bitter cold winter thus you can imagine my surprise upon being embraced by such an odour upon one night lifting the BBQ lid. Its source turned out to be a dead mouse who attracted by the residual heat must have overstayed his moment of comfort

First there is often a thick layer of snow to clear off the lid. This task is made even more challenging if a layer of ice has formed beneath the snow, a common problem if the snowfall occurs while the BBQ is still warm from the previous use. But why bother with this seeming arduous task since the snow will melt anyway as soon as the BBQ is set to light and heat is beginning to generate? Apart from having a filthy light bulb I am always too lazy to clean the surfaces of this cooker after use meaning that the lid gets 'welded' to the outside rim of the BBQ due to a layer of frozen grease that has accumulated from long delinquent misuse.

Then there might be a wind factor that can aggravate the temperature problem. In brisk wind gusts the unit's lighter system is useless and a propane lighter remains lit for only a second or so task. Hence lighting the burners can prove next to impossible. Can you imagine the impossibility of operating a Pistol style BBQ lighter wearing a pair of mitts? The only approach is to turn both burners to the fully on position and then squeeze the trigger on the propane lighter with a shaky bare hand. If you are lucky and jump back quickly enough the whoosh of flame thus produced does not ignite any clothing or singe exposed body hair.

Hopefully you have been cautious enough to avoid any ice accumulation that might reside unnoticed beneath your feet. In absence of having taken this precaution not only might a slip put you in danger of bodily harm but the steaks formerly carefully balanced on the plate in your free hand become 'ground' beef. As long as nobody from inside notices it's no problem to retrieve these and wiping them thoroughly pretend nothing actually happened. Of course it's also important to hope that the winter fertilizer which I describe later, was not on the ground where the errant steaks landed.

Did I forget to mention that we have a winter automated fertilizer program in the back garden in the winter which by it's unique nature slowly becomes a BBQing hazard? As time progresses and because of its nature I have to tread carefully to avoid an added difficulty. Much worse than having to scrub a recalcitrant grill if I persist for any length of time BBQing in winter I sometimes foul my special BBQ shoes with a load of Synammon's poop which as I am sure you understand is a worse fate than scrubbing a grill. Our automated fertilizing program conundrum consists of letting Synammon out into the back garden 4 times a day to do her business and then the owner being too lazy to pooper scoop. I can't seem to train her to not to do one of the last poops of the day in front of the BBQ and since in the winter it is dark by the time I cook the evening meal it's hard to see a pile of fresh dog poop. This problem is aggravated by Synmmons propensity to loiter around the BBQ in a quest to lick up drippings that fall through the holes in the bottom of this old device during its use.  
The upside of this program is that by spring the poop that survived not being collected on my shoes having been frozen all winter disintegrates into a nice granular fertilizer by spring and the roses etc. thank me for my laziness.

The BBQ season ends not due to snow ice cold or accumulating dog poop but when the propane tank runs dry. BBQ propane refills are for some strange reason not available in the winter.

## The Humble Genius

Contrary to what you might suspect form his super star status, Sir A was one of the most humble innovators that I ever knew. The only reason he pushed his ingenious invention so vigorously was that others were publishing erroneous rubbish to try to prevent the scientific acceptance of this radically superior technique.

Sir A was one of the few scientists who had the capability to see unique ways to solve crucial problems. To put it in common lingo Sir A had an eureka moment when he envisioned that it would be much simpler to analyze complex materials for their elements in every important field, eg. environmental, clinical, metallurgical, biological, (you name a field and his innovation would be superior).   
Okay so he made a prototype of this proposed equipment in his lab and he used it to obtain data to prove its mammoth improved capabilities over the presently widely used equipment. The latter was very expensive, complex and impossible to use without extremely expensive training. He published a seminal paper that outlined the device and all these advantages together with the information that his new device could drastically increase sample throughput.

So in a perfect world everybody would throw out their existing costly, complex, inferior equipment and purchase Sir A's device from forward looking company(s) which are now manufacturing these at 1/10th the cost of the throwaways.

To put this in perspective this is like some physicist proposing, proving and publishing a brand new radically different Standard Theory of Particle Physics. (BTW this is likely to happen sooner than later since the present theory, so highly touted by thousands, can only explain the workings of 5% of the matter, since unexplained dark matter and dark energy constitute 20 and 75% of the universe respectively). The tens of thousands of particle physics Physicists are now left holding a redundant theory that has dominated their lives for decades. In a perfect world these Physicists who have spent their life time researching, publishing papers and books and have based their reputations on the now redundant theory accept the new theory and start again from scratch.

It's not hard to predict that the perfect world scenarios aren't going to happen.

Let's go back to Sir A to illustrate what happens when somebody develops a revolutionary approach that makes redundant an approach that is being used by hundreds of thousands of labs worldwide many that are headed up by career world class researchers. This huge melting pot of superfluous individuals start trying to subvert the new theory using every means possible like falsifying results and making derogatory unsubstantiated statements at conferences etc., implying the new approach is so full of holes it will be dead by weeks end. Worse the manufactures of the now redundant equipment, the only sources that could quickly retool to mass produce Sir A's equipment at its startup, deliberately build deficiencies into their versions of Sir A's equipment. Thus purchasers get pissed off when this equipment won't work as promised by Sir A and loads of horse droppings are flung at Alan in the scientific press from all directions and almost everyone goes back to buying and using the old equipment and call Sir A an incompetent fool.

If I had been Alan I would probably shot myself in the head. Sir A being Sir A of the never say die variety begins constructing a properly designed model of his revolutionary equipment at his own cost in his family garage. To do this he needs a few key people that are passionate believers in Sir A's innovation, to volunteer to make some of the key components. He then gives these devices away to the few key researchers who still dare to associate with this dilatant. In the beginning these individuals all resided in the Southern Hemisphere since no one north of the equator had the courage to be involved.

Slowly the technique gained acceptance but still only one commercial manufacturer and that also in the Southern Hemisphere could be persuaded to manufacture the proper equipment. It wasn't until a decade later Sir A's innovation really took off and that was when a large instrumentation company in the US started building equipment. The development was in such demand by that time that one of Sir A's colleagues made a calculation showing at that present rate of sales every inch of the earth would be covered by an AAS by the turn of the century! Of course demands tailed off as all the large pool of initial needs were filled.

What is often typical of eureka innovators was true with Sir A and that is if you tear down a modern day computerized version of Sir A's device every component that Sir A described in his first paper is still there but in modern day guise. A well understood comparison would be how a modern day vehicle contains all the important elements of the Henry Ford designed Model A automobile.

Now back to Sir A's character. You can see that he had to take a bellicose self-serving position at the outset to prevent from being defeated. But the true the true Sir A was.  
-low profile; he hated the grandiose intros he frequently got at conferences and other public appearances. I know this from personal experience because I had to do this job on several occasions and he always threatened to sever my personal parts if I did not promise not to be short and low key. He used to laugh and tell me to just say "I give you Sir A an avid but lousy golfer and then just sit down".  
-Unassuming; Production and sale of Sir A's innovation singlehandedly saved a large North American company from bankruptcy, helping to turn this organization into a multibillion dollar operation. When this company wanted to recognize Sir A's great contribution by putting him into a high profile six figure salary per year position in which he would be required to do no real work but only advise a couple of times a year he told them no thank you. They then asked what they might do instead and he said; "send me to a few good golf courses in the US when I have to be in the country for other purposes". Instead they promised him that they would send him to all the golf courses in the world he might want to play any time he desired and as many times as he wished.

-Disliked having to associate socially with bigwigs in science or business; Instead he adopted my wife M as his defacto social convener because his own wife of many decades was confined to their home with her sick mother. He found that M had a knack of skillfully and graciously freeing him up from obligations such as these. He did enjoy cocktail parties with friends though.

-Sir A had high expectations of his staff and even more of himself. Although he could be a tough task master he was always kindly and fair. 

# Chapter 4

# Controversy

## Pick a Number any Number

A glancing right handed blow rang off my nose. Although I had not been quick enough to totally avoid contact, my colleagues unexpected offering had been forceful enough to draw blood. This incident that occurred in Canada was one of my more memorable brief encounters with real life.

Have you ever viewed with bewilderment the numerical values on the doctor's copy of your blood analysis results? The conversation will perhaps approximate the following: "Mr. Van Loon look your sodium results you will see here fall slightly below the acceptable range and your red cell blood count is low as well". "Otherwise everything seems to be within acceptable levels". The sodium results come from a chemical analysis of your blood whereas the red blood cell count is obtained by counting red blood cells in several areas of the slide. Probably both your doctor and you believe these results as printed on the report to be accurate within acceptable limits. In 2013 this is a pretty reasonable assumption. However even today if a set of blood results is to be a crucial determinant in coming to an important conclusion about your health you must be certain to ask for a second set to be performed, something a perceptive doctor would insist on in any case. The same situation is true with chemical results on important toxic environmental substances and food contaminants.

Now let's go fast backward to 1973 when I published the article "Pick a Number Any Number" in the magazine 'Chemistry in Canada' which occasioned the smack in the nose and that I nick named "the nose bleed paper".

Apart from problems resulting with the inferior equipment and methodology available for this task in those days one other serious deficiency existed, standard reference samples and blind references were rare and hence infrequently used. (Standard Reference Samples will be explained below)

Okay but so what? Equipment existed at that time that analyzed important samples such as blood, environmental and food materials for chemical substances of interest. Results were obtained and data sheets were generated just as they are today. The deficiency was that there no way to properly judge the accuracy of results for most chemical constituents in these important sample types in the 1970's at the time I published my "nose bleed paper".

Mercury is a serious toxin and is commonly found in fish samples in areas where mercury is released in the aquatic environment. It is critical to know the levels of this element in fish caught for human consumption. Using a large volume of data for the determination of mercury in particularly fish samples from around the world I was able to show that the numerical data varied so greatly on the same samples by different labs and using different procedures that the results were on the whole useless for verifying the safety for consumption of fish. Thus I was able to conclude that up to that date the data being used to judge the amount of mercury in fish was useless. It was after presenting this data at a National Conference that a disgruntled colleague with a vested interest in the subject administered the nose bleed blow in a nearby hallway.

Needless to say this and similar work by others resulted in changes that make chemical analysis of such substances much more accurate and useful today.

## Shortcomings of Modern Medicine-Personal Examples

We have moved into an era where results obtained through use of advanced medical technology dominate the diagnostic process particularly in the case of medical specialists. In many ways this is an important development. However it is my personal experience that this dominance of technology in diagnostic procedures, has come about with a steep decline in the medical fraternities capability of using patient symptoms as an alternate approach when necessary. The following examples involve mainly psychiatry/neurology, my main area of medical specialist interaction; I have plenty of similar type illustrations which I could present relating to cardiology.

## Frightening Limitations of Neurological/Psychiatric Specialists

WARNING-- Despite what my comments in this narrative and the other others of a related nature might suggest, medical assistance must be sought and the advice followed. Most importantly recommended medication must be taken faithfully and not stopped without the doctor's consent. Unfortunately as lacking as it may be it is the only assistance available.

'There's nothing much I can do for you without having an MRI scan of your brain'. This was the gist of comments I received from 3 different neurologists I was referred to relating to balance and dizzy spells that arose later on in my life that exacerbated my bipolar problems. Okay but why not? Neurologists must have provided help for people like me before MRI's became available several decades ago! Anyway it wasn't that I refused to have this procedure. I was quite willing. However I had required installation of a pacemaker to help regulate my heart beat and the metal electrodes associated with this device have become over time incorporated in my heart tissue. Using current MRI procedures which consist of applying a strong magnetic field modulated by a radiofrequency signal; the latter would cause the electrodes in my heart to heat up to a level that would fry my heart. There are all-be-it experimental procedures that use reduced magnetic fields which have successfully been used on patients like me with pacemakers but nobody I could find in Toronto would give me such a treatment even though I am very willing and would gladly sign waivers to absent them of any blame if this test caused me injury or death. The reason I am willing to take this chance is that my problems stated above that are complicating my bipolar conditions are making my life very unpleasant. The added problems have made me manically negative in dealing with life's normal problems and therefore much harder to live with.

Brain scans involving X-rays called CT scans are commonly available and although controversial in having possible harmful side effects, I have had at least 10 over the years. Why then are these scans not useful enough for neurological diagnosis in my case? With this brain scan tool available why does the neurologist still make the statement that he cannot be much help in my case without an MRI? X-ray scans are poor for outlining anything relating to organic tissue and a normal brain is almost totally organic tissue. Not to put too fine a point on it unless let's say a large tumor, calcified abnormalities or a scull abnormality occurs, such scans are pretty useless.

Why bother the reader with this personal difficulty that very few bipolar individuals in my position would have? It is because this exemplifies the unacceptably poor, some might even say primitive, treatment for some conditions still proffered in 2013 despite continuously vomited media hoopla announcing almost weekly about radically new developments in most fields of medical science. In fact many large Toronto hospitals have special areas called "Media Rooms" set aside just to attract cameras and reporters to partake of these big new developments that occur in their precincts. This leads me to the following rant that those of us hoping for a sudden and radical development in the treatment of be it bipolarity or any other condition must be very skeptical in our response to such announcements. I call this:

## Mousey Medicine

Presently there is a wide spread use of animals for testing purposes in medical research. This practice, embracing a wide range of nonhuman species, is however largely centered on rodents. Of these by far and away the greatest number are mice. An important reason for this choice is that mice have a genetic composition that is about 90% identical to humans. For this reason many researchers expect results obtained on mice to closely approximate those that might be expected to be obtained with humans. However, close genetic similarities of species are just one factor to be considered when choosing a species for this experimental work. Many other important factors for example adsorption and elimination of test substances in mice and humans can still be quite dissimilar. These other important factors greatly affect the use of such experimental results in predicting their implications for human treatments.

In perhaps the best historically documented case of this type the drug Thalidomide, a supposedly harmless sedative and nausea suppressing drug, was prescribed for expectant mothers based on excellent results obtained with mice. This substance occasioned a disastrous outbreak of widespread human birth defects, up to 10,000 before the problem was discovered and thalidomide use discontinued. In this instance a follow-up study found that mice could actually tolerate about 8000 times, on a relative basis, the dose compared to humans without ill effects of any type. The thalidomide disaster beginning in 1961 caused dramatic changes to occur in procedures and permissions for human testing using substances flagged as possibly useful based on results obtained with experimental animals.

It would appear however that many medical researchers show little concern for reporting results as possibly having favourable implications for treatment of human disease from research still at the mouse stage that is before enacting any testing directly on humans. Since rules for human testing of such substances are now so stringent and time consuming the temptation for reporting of new potential human disease treatments at the mouse stage is high. Those of us who have reached middle age or older are very familiar with this practice and the common disappointments that result when mouse study predictions, for favourable human treatments, are never realised. In fact less than 10% of successful treatments on mice translate into successful treatments for humans. Being learning disabled I have a great interest in possible medical treatments for this problem. At the age of 74 I have seen several dozen predictions for successful drug treatments of this problem doomed for failure. As of this writing no properly documented cure for learning disabilities exists.

Due to revolutionary advances in analytical biochemistry the genetic composition of a large number of organisms including humans has become known. Researchers can now identify defective and marker genes related to a variety of problems and using this information can predict the likelihood of certain diseases being developed through individual testing. For example this can result in women opting to have mastectomies despite the absence of any actual physical symptoms of breast cancer. Should individuals results fall into the public domain genetic testing could be utilized in whether to grant life insurance and in making hiring decisions.

Although a few successful genetically based treatments for human disease actually exist today, I have particular concern relating to the following growing poorly regulated practice. Here non human laboratory research studies show that a genetic procedure has cured a disease or drastically improved the treatment of that disease, in a test population of mammals such as mice. These results are then used as the usual springboard for predicting the likelihood of developing medications or favourable clinical procedures and even cures, when used with humans in the future. Results are still often being reported without any vestige of human testing having been done. The problem today is the much wider ranging, still weakly based, but much more aggressive nature of this type of prediction, something the science of my day would strongly have disavowed. Many medical research facilities actually maintain Media Rooms for release of such material.

Charitable organizations and research groups in the medical domain depend on favourable research results for improvement in monetary support. Many of us donate to charity and would be predisposed to be more generous if favourable predictive medical results applied to diseases affecting our progeny and other loved ones. It is worrisome to me, as a scientist who believes that some research indication of human benefit should be accomplished, which is publishable in peer reviewed journal, before probability of any human success is announced. Otherwise, less rigorous press released material; totally non-human based may wrongly influence the charitable actions of generous citizens.

Non-the- less carefully validated genetically based medicine does hold tremendous and wide ranging promise for treatment now and in the future.

## My Own Highly Medicated Life

Medication has dominated my life even before diagnosis. Bipolarity, still known when I was diagnosed as Manic Depression, went unidentified in my early years until age 45. When unchecked, this problem is typified by emotional oscillations from deep depression to manic excesses. The oscillation frequency in my case varied from minutes to weeks.

Perhaps it is incorrect to label cigarettes, or more correctly the addictive chemical nicotine, as a medication. But for 15 or so years following my teens, I felt smoking was a useful component that in some manner helped mollify my manic and depressive stages.

Enter Psychiatrists beginning in my 20s, as a dominant monthly feature for the rest of my life. But even for 20 years under their tutelage my bipolarity continued undiagnosed. The early practitioners in my case filled me with valium. This medication coupled with alcohol became the perfect camouflage, by repressing my emotional extremes. I encountered an unusual variety of Psychiatrists that could be grouped according to their treatment preferences. A few worked without emphasis on medications. My favorite amongst these used biofeedback as his weapon of choice. With the device being attached to the patient he taught relaxation procedures and their effectiveness was judged by evaluating squiggly signals on a monitor. When the baseline of the signal travelled lower on the screen, it meant the patient was becoming more relaxed. The effectiveness of this approach became abundantly clear in one session, where my baseline signal indicated severe agitation, but when I looked over at the doctor I discovered that he had fallen asleep.

Of course the most effective practitioner was the one that finally diagnosed my bipolarity. Surprisingly this gentleman had also previously employed the heaviest doses of valium, which had most effectively hidden my bipolar mood swings. To say he diagnosed this problem would perhaps be an error in semantics. During one session after a hurried consultation with a colleague he returned with the question, "Do you think you might be manic depressive"? How the Hell would I know? I stated "perhaps". This really marked the onslaught of medications. Valium disappeared only to be replaced by an arsenal of up to twelve different drugs, all being consumed simultaneously on a daily basis.

The first major new drug introduction was the substance lithium carbonate. This is the most common staple used in the treatment of bipolar disease. In another form lithium will be recognized by most readers as the major constituent of rechargeable batteries, in electronic gadgets and electric cars. Although the previous comment on lithium batteries would appear to bear no relevance to my problem, lithium carbonate, while effectively performing its magic on the emotional swings, it had the not uncommon side effect of causing me to shuffle and shake as though I was a malfunctioning battery powered toy. The only alternative consisted of a medley of three drugs; The main one, an anti-seizure compound with an unpredicted side effect of being useful for treating bipolar problems, had to be administered in massive 1.5 gm doses.

To understand the treatment of bipolar disease one can imagine a composer formulating melody. The composer varies the content until the melody contains the correct combination of notes and cords. These must then be played with satisfying emphasis and tonal quality. Likewise 'effective' drug treatment for my emotional problem was a matter of trial and error. The combinations of medications and the amount of each were varied by the practitioner at each appointment, until the types and amounts of those that control the manic highs combined with the species and level of those that prevent depression, have resulted in as close to a stable emotional state as possible. Imagine then the wear and tear that this chemical assault over a period of 35 years must have levied on my bodily organs.

## The Very Pompous Neurologist

I got a referral to the "Best Neurologist in Toronto". This man now heads neurology at the most up-scale clinic in the city. He is well-known and respected for his research program. Thus what I am about to say in a negative vein about his mode of practice is obviously not the view of most. It beats me how so called talented doctors can be insensitive especially in dealing with high strung (not yet officially diagnosed as bipolar) individuals like myself who because of the nature of this problem are easily upset. In a word I think he might have been a gifted researcher but his manner with me left much to be desired. In fact I got the opinion I was wasting his precious time. He said as much when he stated his conclusion as to the cause of my problems followed by the appeal for my not to consult any further neurologists. He claimed to have seen CT scans that were done on me in recent time to the appointment but when I asked to have a look at these he refused. Bear in mind that in Ontario it is the right of all patients to have a copy of any medical report done on his person.

I must say he was different than most previous neurologists in that he was very detailed in his observations and questioning. Also he did not request any further testing. He gave me his conclusion that heavy doses of medication that I had taken for long periods of time were killing white brain cells in my frontal lobe and my problems would only get worse. He judged me as a hypochondriac and thus his statement that it would be a waste of time to see further neurologists.

As I always do after an appropriate interval I asked for a copy of the doctor's report but was unable to obtain anything from his office. Fortunately my family doctor had received a copy from which I got mine. When I looked at the data he had written down in answer to my questions I could see his mind must have otherwise been preoccupied since there were so many statements on the report that differed from my replies. The situation of erroneous material was so bad plus his statement that I was obvious a hypochondriac that I wrote a detailed letter correcting the forms to this neurologist with a copy to my family doctor. Most certainly I had sought help from a number of psychiatrists and neurologists but since no suitable results were being obtained who would not have attempted to find a doctor who could provide some relief? I received no reply from the neurologist but my family doctor was disgusted especially that he should accuse me of hypochondria which she knew to be false. Considering his error filled report what a pompous attitude he purveyed in telling me not to bother any other neurologists.

## 'Alternative Medicine'

Although having been subjected to a chemical smorgasbord of drugs my entire adult life, I have also been fortunate enough to witness an entirely different and extremely effective type of "medication" in the case of a cardiac patient. Animals have long been known to be useful for improving the emotional wellbeing of those in health care institutions and homes for the aged. I spent five years volunteering at a local nursing home and subsequently came to befriend one of the patients named Ben. On many weekends over this five year period I would take Smudge, our black Labrador, in to visit with me and here-in developed an unusual story.

Ben was a remarkable person in several ways, including being a much decorated WW 2 veteran. Hence this man was no stranger to bravery. As Smudge and I entered the picture, Ben had severe heart and emotional difficulties. As the relationship developed I became aware of the intensity of pain that was involved daily in Ben's life, particularly related to periods of angina. Concurrent with this, I also realized just how important a dog can be in deflecting a patient's outward awareness of pain. Ben and Smudge shared an intense relationship, where-by Smudge's presence seemed to become as effective as pain killers. Smudge weighed 45 kg so I was always hesitant as Ben would motion her to jump onto the bed and lie beside him with her head in his face. Thus I always very cautiously guided the dog up and made certain that the rest of her body was not resting against any of Ben's body area.

One Sunday morning Smudge and I arrived in the hallway to hear loud moaning sounds of painful angina emanating from Ben's room. For a second this anguish precipitated a loss in my concentration. At this point Smudge also became aware of her friend's predicament and bolted from my tenuous grasp. In horror I watched her tail disappear around the corner into his room, followed closely by the sound of a large object crashing onto the bed. Then total silence resulted. As I dashed to the bedside with fearful visions of what might have occurred, I half expected to find Ben dead from a heart attack. When I rounded the corner, I was dumbfounded. As I feared the dog had indeed impacted on the center on Ben's chest. But instead of a dead body, I found Ben breathing peacefully, a mammoth smile enveloping his face and a big pink tongue licking his smiling lips. About to utter a litany of apologies, my throat choked up and no sound came out, which turned out, fortunately, to be much more appropriate.

# Chapter 5

# Problems Facing Mankind

## Preamble–My Essential Credentials Related to the following Perspectives

I had a loving Christian up-bring with an emphasis on practicing daily the principles thus cultivated. My two siblings, one a reputed scientist and a Baptist University graduate, have practiced their religions for a lifetime in exemplary fashions and are pillars of their churches.

As an undergrad student at the above Baptist University I was required to take first year level courses in Christian religion and in philosophy. However the scraps of relevant material learned therein plus a couple of dollars would engender a latte at Starbucks despite being severely bipolar and 'dyslexic' I possess a double major BSc degree in Geology and Chemistry and a PhD in Chemistry. Thereafter I became a Full Professor at the University of Toronto and was cross-appointed to 3 divisions, the Departments of Geology, and Chemistry and The Institute for Environmental Studies. In the case of The Institute of Environmental Studies I am a founding member. In addition I was involved closely with guiding graduate students in the Department of Botany.

My research team was focused mainly towards environmental chemistry. But a factor that really broadened my perspective relating to the vagaries of human nature was being a contributing member of several multidisciplinary teams that studied and produced recommendations that related to a broad range of environmental problems. As examples those teams included 'The Lakeshore Capacity Study' and the 'Toronto Lead Study'.

As a result of research from all these sources I published over 150 Peer reviewed research papers and 6 research text books. In this regard it is important to acknowledge the contribution to these publications the efforts of a variety of talented co-workers and co-authors.

I have more recently published 10 free e-books mostly self-help; (related to proven methods to excel that I developed to overcome my 'disabilities') and environmentally oriented.

I must stress 3 factors of great import to this content.

Firstly, the multidisciplinary teams at the Institute for Environmental Sciences having been formulated from a large pool of world ranking professors typical of a university the size and high standing of the University of Toronto. This provided an unusually authoritative perspective on attempts to solve major world 9in this case environmental) problems often thwarted by the human nature problems resulting from the prolific variety of disciplinary, cultural, religious and social backgrounds . These studies involved such abroad range of disciplines including not only all relevant branches of pure science and engineering but also for example medics, economists, sociologists and lawyers. Thus it provided a uniquely capacious educational perspective to all members and an important opportunity to view, discuss and report on environmental problems in a uniquely comprehensive and meaningful manner. I should add that a group in the university setting has the important advantage over similar groups formed in governments and at worldwide agencies of being relatively free from partisan political pressure as well as lacking undue influence from lobbyists and other especial interest groups.

Secondly, I was accorded the rare experience of for short periods of time living and working in a variety of jurisdictions on 6 Continents worldwide. This came about because of the development within my own research group of unique relatively inexpensive equipment and uncomplicated methodology for chemical determination of particularly noxious metals and their compounds in complex environmental and clinical samples. My involvement in these instances was sponsored by various scientific bodies, UNESCO and the World Bank.

Thirdly, it was my passion to avoid living in typical North American accommodation such as that provided by the well-known mega hotels that abounded in the larger cities. Thus I insisted that I should stay in accommodation, usually small local hotels, to maximize my exposure to the people and practices of each location. This occasioned not only these desired objectives but resulted in amusing and sometimes heartrending stories some that I have written about separately in a widely available free eBook entitled Brief Encounters with Real Life.

My own research at the University of Toronto was very much entangled with medical projects. Many of the methods we developed were for determination of elements and their species in human body fluids. We worked directly with Medical doctors in projects such as investigations to find suitable metal alloys for use with implanted insulin pumps and finding suitable metal implant alloys for use in the jaws and other parts of body structure. We played a fundamental role in ensuring that standard reference samples were used in clinical analytical labs worldwide as a means of ensuring correct results were being generated for example in analysis of human blood.

## An Urgent Dilemma for Mankind

During the approximately 1 million years of human history before emergence of the Industrial Revolution 200 years ago the world population was I billion and technology was relatively rudimentary. Energy use involved primarily combustion of wood and coal for lighting, cooking and warmth.

Then drastic changes in mankind's lifestyle occurred. Industry proliferated and manufacturing placed accelerating demands on existing energy reserves and other natural resources. Then enter oil, its refinery products and natural gas. Greenhouse gas emissions, the product of combustion processes, accelerated. Probably the most notable early milestone in mechanized industrial innovation was Henry Ford's 1920's production line for mass assembly of gasoline powered vehicles. All such modern industrial processes are highly electrified. The largest percentage of electricity generation involves steam powered turbines. Steam production other than in nuclear reactors occurs through energy resource combustion.

In North America and other technologically advanced regions significant anthropogenic contribution to the natural atmospheric emissions of greenhouse gases particularly carbon dioxide accelerated lock step with rapid technological innovation. Meanwhile in less developed world regions with exploding populations and inchoate technology, accelerating requirements for energy contributed substantially to this problem. Accompanied by a 700% increase in population which transpired in a paltry span of 200 years we now stand on the brink of climate change exigency.

Pursuit of environmentally friendlier sources of energy has provided few potential practical alternatives. Despite contrary claims proffered in sources like the bestselling book "Abundance", favored solar and wind technologies can never contribute more than a small percentage of our energy requirements. Many reasons can be cited including immense space requirements, damage during weather related disasters, infrastructure costs and maintenance, intermittency of operation and public and political obstacles.

Like traditional energy reserves other natural resources occur worldwide in finite quantities. Industrial and agricultural technologies are increasingly dependent on utilization of fresh water, mineral and related reserves. Thus our modern lifestyles have become reliant on the consumption of vast and rapidly increasing quantities of the world's resources.

Dissenters in the resource depletion dilemma mention recycling in a broad sense which includes recovery of a plethora of used assets including water. Resources obtained in this manner will provide an important availability addendum but usually at the cost of heavy energy consumption and its ramifications for exacerbating the climate change predicament.

Technological marvels are dazzling consumers at rapidly accelerating rates. But unpredicted long-term potential consequences can result from widely adopted new technologies. Cellular communication requiring microwave emitting towers provides a recent conundrum. But an historical example is more felicitous. Automobiles not only require vast quantities of energy and mineral resources but trigger a plethora of environmental, urban planning, political, economic and sociological concomitants. Technologists have failed to provide a practical solution for replacement of the 150 year old internal combustion engine propulsion system or for appreciable capture of carbon dioxide its main greenhouse gas pollutant. Hybrid and to a lesser extent electric vehicles, the later with serious practical draw backs, represent inroads. If the concept fostered in the book "Abundance" that accelerating rates of technology will produce solutions to the world's crucial problems can we expect an acceptable answer to carbon dioxide emission problems in the immanent future? If so can we with certainty determine that said solution will be adopted for mass use in a timely manner and will not present unpredicted consequences? Likely not considering the following being historically commonplace in such matters.

Referring to electricity generation industry the September 27 journal Science News and Analysis section headline, "U.S. Carbon Plan Relies on Uncertain Capture Technology" is followed by the revelation that large-scale testing of this technology will not occur until at least 2016. This is a characteristically disturbing pattern of mankind's vulnerability to economy based governmental delays in instituting remedial measures for critical problems. Similarly but on an international scale the recent prestigious International Panel on Climate Change November 2013 released climate change recommendations are suffering a similar fate. These will not be in agreement form until 2015 and will be awaiting full implementation worldwide until 2020.

The modern western lifestyle has until recently remained largely confined to 25% of the world. Not unexpectedly immense population jurisdictions such as China and India are now covetous of western lifestyles and are rapidly evolving in this direction meaning a more equitable sharing of resources is essential. Vast and accelerating worldwide energy and natural resource consumption has occurred in only 200 years often accompanied by major environmental dilemma. Fundamental alteration to worldwide lifestyle expectations, government and business decision making priorities and procedures and in particular vastly increased public concern for the worldwide environmental future are essential. Without these and considering the burgeoning worldwide population in this rancorous world the hopes for maintaining a mankind sustainable biosphere on this planet for a protracted period into the future seems unlikely.

## Human Nature

"There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself" (The Long Goodbye-Raymond Chandler, Hamish Hamilton Press, 1953). I would like to paraphrase this cogent quote as follows because it so well describes the essence of the human nature fed disaster that we are about to enter. Thus I would say 'There is no trap so deadly as that which we have been unremittingly setting for ourselves'.

We live in an already overpopulated world. This destabilizing fact together with the incessant flow of new technology, its consequences largely untested, has led the consumer mad citizens of the developed world to adopt lifestyles that are largely unsustainable for an extended period into the future. The trap is that there is little we can now do of consequence quickly enough to reverse the problems that will surely lead to a worldwide biosphere unsuitable for the preservation of mankind.

My challenge in what follows is to demonstrate the truth of this view. I sincerely hope someone will prove me wrong.

"It has recently become frighteningly clear to me just how intimately the significant and often even the seemingly inconsequential aspects of our existing lifestyle has become the driving force of worldwide environmental collapse in the long term. Mankind's intractable mindset focused on short term personal wellbeing results in the inability to sense the need to make drastic changes to fundamentals of current infrastructure. Changes in this regard include refocus of government towards an emphasis on long term planning, business and industrial practices that are not solely centered on the bottom-line and a citizenry which willing to sacrifice a short term unsustainable overly consumer driven lifestyle. This latter is the basic key to meaningful change. Government, industry and business in general are driven by the demands of the citizens so all change must be initiated here.

The Human race taken as a grouping worldwide is basically selfish, greedy, narcissistic, egomaniacal, mercenary, and narrow-minded with the exception of acts such as those related to one's close friends and family members and of course this latter just amplify the former. Our own welfares are A number 1 and we can sometimes employ a variety of egregious methods to keep this so. Unfortunately the further up the power chain we go all this gets amplified and generally the worse human nature traits generally become.

Please remember that my overall negative view of human nature stated above comes from having lived and performed work here and worldwide associated with universities, business and government. In this regard I have observed all levels of society from as examples the Favela's of Rio, the chaos at all levels in South Africa, working class Chinese to the wealthiest officials of sectors of the Mining Industry and almost everything in between.

## Honesty can be Dangerous-Deceit at high Levels

An ugly possibility, jail loomed menacingly. As an idealistic young researcher I possessed no fear of publishing the truth, or as it was in this case what I strongly believed to be the correct chemical results. The reality of being challenged by one of industries giants in a court of law was for a scientist at quite a different level of encountering fear.

They were Cool but bright days in early May 1972. A friend and colleague and I were studying the fish population and water quality of a suite of lakes near an industrial city in Central Ontario. Emanations from the cities smelters were sulfurous and metal bearing in nature. Nets had been set at strategic points to allow an estimation of the fish population. The acidity was measured in situ and water samples were taken and stabilized for lab analysis.

The numbers of fish being caught were few and those that were turned out to be elderly indicating that these species, mostly trout, were unable to spawn under the existing conditions. Other scientist could use scales rings and the calcium content of reproductive organs to age the fish. Our host, a trapper and hunter, made the most delicious fish stews from our catches eaten with sour dough bread slathered in butter it was a delight. (The fish had been taken in gill nets and were not in a fit state for release). During all this enjoyment and good science the threat of a possible jail incarceration never entered our minds!

A confidential Government report was compiled using our chemical and fish count results. It was on behalf of the local indigenous people who depended of fishing for a large part of their livelihood. The story becomes hazy at this point. Whether the government sued the large industrial complex for pollution of the large suite of lakes that we found almost bereft of fish and highly contaminated with metals and acid I don't know. All I do know for sure is that soon we were threatened to be sued for publishing erroneous results and hence slandering the company in question. Jail was a small but distinct eventuality we might face.

Ours had been one of the few laboratories in North America using standard reference samples to attempt to verify our results. Thus it was beyond our understanding how the challenging industry could claim their results showed our reported values to be 10 times too high! I was too frightened to attend the trial and any way the lawyers had my co-worker and all our results. It came down to the last day and it was clear the judge could not tell which side was right when suddenly an anonymous person from within the industry supplied a document showing that their results in fact agreed with ours. Immediately the industry settled with the Indigenous people, affected, for the full amount! Sometimes beads of perspiration still break out on my forehead when I think of this quandary. Since then sometimes although I am certain of my veracity I still have vestigial doubts.

Perhaps we had not learned our lesson well enough about tackling big corporations, since a year or so later a few of us from the lab went down to Southwestern Ontario Canada to investigate the contamination of Lake Erie by another prominent Industry. This Industry had a year or so previously been the subject of a notorious TV program called "Air of Death" relating to another pollutant.

In this case we were investigating Phosphorous as (phosphate), the so-called limiting nutrient. This element achieved this name because its low level in most lakes, compared to other nutrients, prevents harmful algal blooms from forming. Thus any plentiful amount in the outflow from industry or other sources causes an undesirable green slimy algal bloom event. (It might be important at this point to indicate the deleterious nature of algal blooms-other than their unsightliness and impediment to recreational use of the water body. Another more serious problem arises when the algae dies and decomposes, a process which utilizes dissolved oxygen and hence results in it's depletion in the water. The loss of dissolved oxygen seriously affects fish populations, particularly the desirable fish that are commercially important and those that are of greatest interest to anglers).

We found astoundingly high levels of phosphate, in the aqueous effluent of this Industry. We reported this to the press, but by the time it appeared the story was general enough that it seemed that the Industry had not stopped emitting the original "air of death" pollutant which had caused such an outcry the year previous and which they had promised to stop. That night I was curled up in a ball on the bed in tears fearing that there would be a phone call from the Industries lawyer. Sure enough the phone rang. I asked Maureen to answer because I couldn't. But instead of a lawyer it was a company representative apologizing for the situation and promising that immediate action was coming! We never found out about whether they did remediate the phosphate situation. This was only one of many sources of phosphate from both the US and Canada into Lake Erie, the shallowest and least voluminous of the Great Lakes. Thus in the 70's and 80's the Lake had a serious problem as far as algae was concerned. Although many of these sources were much diminished or eliminate and Lake Erie went through a lengthy interval of much improved water quality for swimming and fishing, expanded shore line urban density is threatening to return the lake to its untenable state of pollution.

## Corruption a Cornerstone of Daily Affairs

Corruption in the Canadian setting occurs in massive incidents in upper echelons of for example business and Government and such incidents are made famously familiar almost every day in the local and national press. Thus the average citizen might tend to think the problem more infrequent considering the population in the developed countries as a whole. Of course this is far from true but I thought an illustration from developing countries that I have experienced widely would create a better example of the true dominant nature of corruption as a Basic proclivity in the basic makeup of the human race.

Broadly speaking I found to my dismay that my progress as a consultant in developing countries depended on proffering bribes at all levels of my negotiations be it a personal need such as changing a train ticket at a ticket office to business dealings such as the following.

There resided in my own laboratory a very functional but dated piece of equipment which was no longer of use to my work. I recognized its value to modernizing and expediting work here. It seemed that the equipment should be shipped here to a needy lab in a Brazilian University and I was quite anxious to do this even at my own expense. The request was made to approve the paper work. Somewhere up the governmental line and outside the University (the latter which was pleased with the idea), a snag developed. Someone wanted the equivalent in cash and then would purchase some equipment in Brazil. Firstly I knew such quality equipment did not exist in Brazil and secondly I had been informed that such a sum would be much diminished before, or if it ever came to the proper place. As I was wrestling with the situation an unexpected solution appeared. I complained bitterly in the presence of my host, a well-known international charitable organization. A representative asked me where the equipment currently stood; I explained that it resided on such and such bench in my lab. He then said, "when do you wish it to arrive" and I replied "the sooner the better". Next week there it stood in the Brazilian lab. It was in full working order which was amazing since it contained delicately adjusted optical components. It had arrived through a diplomatic maneuver using diplomatic immunity to guide the item through customs.

## The Shortest Life Span

Considering the world's multitudinous religions, many of the more dominant profess to teach their adherents to love one another. Yet to paraphrase a line from E.M. Forsters novel "Room With a View" we have actually been brought up in a world where in reality we have been taught to hate one another in the name of God. Religion against religion, sect against sect race against race, country against country and on it goes. Jean Paul Sartre once stated; "Without God we are condemned to be free". Notice the word 'condemned'. This implies a sense of abandonment into the world without any enshrined overriding superintendence or guiding principles. This statement is not presented in this closing perspective as a denunciation of all things religious or in any other way as a dismissal of a supreme being, even though that was Sartre's mantra and indeed my own.

Let's remember that at this crucial point in history mankind is in large part crowded together throughout this already overpopulated world, facing one another in hostile camps. Technology is erupting at exponential rates. Some of this is designed for the benefit of mankind. Most is simply geared to appeal to the consumer mad bulk of society. Unfortunately as was the case with the automobile, the adverse side effects of such technology will not adequately be considered. Worse a significant fraction of technology is devised for evil purposes. We are reaching an era when such technology is both miniaturized and relatively inexpensive, leaving great scope for its easy deployment by terrorist groups.

Throughout the billions of years of earth history Nature itself has without fail provided its own ultimate controls to populations of species which could not control their numbers or excessive environmental damage. Thus mankind who seems strangely blind to these immanent dangers could be the subject of such a naturally evoked control.

Mankind is unique among species with a variety of characteristics that have allowed us to become dominant. These include high a level of intelligence, superior power of reasoning, imagination, special physical adaptions, freedom of expression and many more. Would this not imply that we would also have the good sense to protect and ensure our continued existence as a species on this planet?

Consider for example that dinosaurs have existed as a grouping for 165 million years, crocodiles for 150 million years, rabbits and squirrels for about 20 million years and are still present. Primates the grouping in which we are classified, evolved 15 million years ago with fully anatomically complete Homo sapiens (modern man) appearing only about 0.5 million years ago and of course still exist. With our multitude of superior characteristics one might reasonably expect man to develop a life style that would allow us to populate the earth for an appreciably extended period.

But is there even one among you who, considering the present intolerant, selfish, chaotic, state of human existence that feels modern man will last another 0.5 million years and reach the 1 million year mark before our self-imposed extinction? This means that the lifespan of 'intelligently superior' modern man on this earth will be among the shortest of any grouping on record.

## 
