Memoirs Of a Manic

Memoirs of a Manic

Jon Van Loon

Copyright 2012 Jon Van Loon

Smashwords Edition

Preface

The nature of my bipolar condition, despite administration of heavy medication trapped me mainly in the manic pole of this condition. How else might you imagine that a student with an IQ of 98 would have enough drive to earn a PhD?

Common sense is the collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen. Quote-Albert Einstein.

During my life time, having lived and worked on 6 Continents, I logged a prodigious number of adventures from which the following chronicles have sprung. Although I attempted to keep prejudices in the guise of common sense to a minimum I managed to extend my collection of these throughout my entire present life span of 75 years. This fact and my frenetic condition gives rise to the following often quirky situations and creates the serpentine window of life that the reader is about to peak through.

Actually the word ‘collection’ is the key to the relatively unique format of this tomb. What you are about to find is a collection of short stories peppering these pages in a pattern not unlike random pellets from a shot gun blast.

But stop before you decide to journey further you must consider my further constraining credentials as a writer. Astounding as has been indicated, my IQ as measured in the 1950’s was less than 100. Yet I went on to earn a PhD in Chemistry and become a full Professor at the University of Toronto. The latter was however likely a byproduct of the unrelenting drive of living mainly in the manic state of my lifelong plague of bipolarity a state during which intensive work is possible in continuous 20 hour days.

From the inception of my life I have been hampered by an additional serious problem that augured against any likelihood of academic achievement. Although not diagnosed until the age of 40 I possessed a serious learning disability (eg. visual memory in lowest 40th percentile of the population). I am limited to performing at grade 9 levels in spelling, grammar, vocabulary and other important intellectual essentials. Every word herein was produced on a computer keyboard using single finger typing and even then I would often have to spend seconds searching for the desired letter before striking. Does this in itself not preclude me from becoming a writer? Do you really want to read tales written by someone whom by most definition is close to illiterate?

This then brings me to a second Einstein quote, Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts. Most books have a format consisting of a string of Chapters that may often be grouped into several lengthy Sections or Parts. The reader commonly expects to read what amounts to a narrative which has a beginning and then proceeds, although not necessarily in a straight forward manner, to an ending. Due to my abysmal visual memory and grade 9 level syntax I could not create a compendium in this conventional format; the problem being that in attempting to evolve a treatise over more than a few pages and I begin to lose the thread. Hence I must resort to this form of memoir that travels along a winding string of my life’s mostly amusing experiences. Thus if standard format does not necessarily count then what follows will likely entertain the reader.

Acknowledgements

The majority of the stories herein were freely and kindly edited by my specialist in English, Therese Larkins. In this regard I owe her a great debt and thanks. Imagine the patience and forbearance essential by this kindly friend considering my deficiencies caused by both my Learning Disability and Bipolar conditions. My wife Maureen comes in for special kudos for her love and for bringing up the family in a fine manner while I was so often occupied abroad experiencing these adventures and particularly while in professional treatment for problems arising from my mental/emotional maladies.

Atrax Robustus and the Garbage Pail Lid

Australia has the largest number of species of poisonous creatures of any country on this planet, a fact of which I was blissfully unaware when I first agreed to become resident with my family as a Visiting Scientist at CSIRO, Division of Chemical Physics. In fact it wasn't until my second round of work in Australia that this problem became an issue.

East Heathcote, a Sydney Southern Suburb exists in its totality within Royal National Park. Living herein was like moving to the wilderness despite being only 1.5 km from the Heathcote suburban center and a station on one of the busiest rail lines to Sydney Central and extending onward to Bondi Beach.To begin with there were the large clutch of raucous Cockatoos who chose the middle of a Munster's rerun every night to return deafeningly to their roost in a nearby Norfolk Island Pine. Even with windows and doors tightly shut the thread of even this predictable comedy became indiscernible. This was however trivial compared to finding a poisonous Redback spider holed up on the garden trowel I was reaching for in the garage.

My work at CSIRO was located in Lucas heights a 20 minute bus ride away. That is until a fellow lodger discovered a path through a pleasant ravine that not only saved the bus fare but provided enough cardiovascular exercise to obviate our nightly exercise routines. Both sides of this 60 m deep ravine were heavily wooded with Eucalyptus trees punching above a tangle of barbed Acacia locally called Wattles, resplendently smothered in late winter by tiny, brilliantly yellow, powder puff like flora.

The extremely narrow, poorly defined but persistent path, meandered through the underbrush but was bisected at the bottom by a massive fallen eucalypt trunk suspended 1 meter above a small stream. Its considerable diameter meant levering oneself up from a stone in the stream and then down the other side to the continuing path. Upon struggling to the ravine summit on the other side the CSIRO property could easily be entered. On a good weather day about 40 minutes was required door to door. For several months this trip became my daily regimen until the practice ended suddenly.

Upon reaching the top of the fallen eucalypt trunk one morning I found my leading foot about to descend onto the wavering head of a large and neurotoxin laden, Eastern Brown Snake waiting ominously on the other side. About 2 m in length these scaly reptiles have no compunction to strike if sensing a menace. This induced a world record breaking 180 degree spin back over the trunk that threw me face down in the stream bottom mud. Worse I was still within striking distance for the snake from under the log. Next morning back on the bus and in answer to my seat mate as to my sudden return to this sedentary method of travelling to work, I stated that ravine walking had become not as healthful as I thought it should be.

Probably the most famous hazard reputed to inhabit the confines and outskirts of Sydney is the Sydney Funnel Web Spider. The likely encounter with one of these spiders whose venomous bite was the cause of severe illness and sometimes death until the 1980's when anti venom was developed, became the favourite taunt of my kindly landlord who stated his grounds were fraught with these insects. Often encountered in a web in a hole in loose ground where it would await at the top to attack its unsuspecting prey, it was not adverse to having a nibble of a wayward barefoot or hand which happened across. Needless to say I was respectful of this warning and always wore heavy shoes when moving about outside. Surprisingly, on the other hand, the landlord himself took few precautions when out and about and particularly when without gloves he weeded his garden. This caused me laughingly to comment that it was interesting that, despite his warnings of the prevalence of this beast, I had never in 2 months had the pleasure of an encounter. I went on to opine that he probably invented this fable to prevent tenants from disturbing his treasured garden.

Imagine my shock when returning to my room after work the next evening, I noted a large tightly lidded canning jar had been placed on my bedside table wherein reposed a lively 6cm hairy black spider spritely jumping about. This unsettling phenomenon brought forth the information that this critter, a male Funnel Web, had been readily netted under the lip of one of the household garbage pail lids, one that I had often with bare hands opened to deposit trash. Unlike the female her consort develops a wanderlust accounting for its presence in this most perturbing location.

Upon hearing my protest over this predator’s unexpected presence, the landlord's girl friend entered and without even a by-your-leave unlidded the jar and calmly tipped its lively contents into the garden just under my open window. Despite Sydney's oppressive summer's heat and no air-conditioning this, my only window, remained tightly bolted for the remainder of my tenure.

The Great Dog Shenanigans

Many years back when the family was young we were the proud owners of a sequence of Labrador Retrievers, first a black called Smudge followed by two yellows. Despite any external variations such as size and colours, they all shared a penchant for chronic disobedience, hyperactivity and excessive strength. I took particular pride in having large active dogs and detested toy dogs such as poodles. Consistently our dogs partook in obedience training at the best schools and easily passed these courses. For whatever reason though, they also consistently dismissed this accomplished skill in favour of their former unruly behaviour. There were many recriminations among family members as to the reason for this result, but the only logical conclusion that seemed to hold up was that I was the culprit for persistent lack of enforcement. So-be-it, these lovable canines always seemed to be more intelligent or perhaps more crafty than I. The family accused me of being too lazy to enforce their hard won skills, but I think I was just too easily shammed. Of all these dogs Smudge was the biggest offender. With the benefit of hind sight I often wonder if some of this malefaction could be off loaded as Smudge’s revenge for always being called Sludge by a partially deaf, elderly member, of our family.

Our Labs were always great walkers and I was a rabid jogger. Problematically though Smudge, used to pull me almost to severe injury. It made me mad that no matter how fast I jogged she could keep up just by walking faster. One day she was so energetic that I thought I would speed the outing by taking her on a long downhill stretch until she was actually running. I was so successful that she had me up to my top speed and a little out of control. I had forgotten that at the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right angle turn. By the time this problem came into view I could not slow her down sufficiently and she made a perfect turn and continued racing up the street. Meanwhile I failed to negotiate the turn and crashed flailing through someone's hedge. I was in a mess of bleeding scratches and was crawling along on all fours. The hedge owner came running out and I thought was looking to help me. But no, he began giving me hell for buggering up his prize hedge. Meanwhile Smudge had returned dragging her leash and I am certain was actually smiling at my predicament!

The Christmas season was a particular stimulant for all of our Labs and their enjoyment always seemed to involve problems of one type or another. Not unlike the majority of dogs, taste and smell were the senses that came to the fore. Of particular note is the year that our children reached an appropriate age to decorate gingerbread men to enhance the Christmas tree. This process was pursued with an abundance of enthusiasm by Maureen and the children and involved the baking of gingerbread men and production of cones filled with many different colours of homemade icings. The cleanup thereafter wasn't as much of a group activity though and involved mainly Maureen on her own. The colourful appetizing finished products were attached to the tree in our basement family room and made a princely display indeed. Care had been exercised to place these at a level on the tree unreachable even by a dog’s tongue. Some hours later while preparing for bed, a loud thump emanated from below. Imagine our chagrin to find the tree on its side with Smudge posed there-on, ravishingly licking the gingerbread men's delicately administered icing décor and then consuming the remains.

The other particular issue with Labs is trying to restrain them from any sizable body of water. Thus periods of attendance at our winterised lake front cottage was one of the pinnacles on all the Labs enjoyment curve. Travel with animals is always problematic and the old style spacious station wagons of our cottage days were the ideal solution. Two adults, three children and the dog, together with our luggage fit neatly here-in. Even a friend or two could be shoehorned in when necessary. During the trips, I was often accused of a multitude of misdemeanours, like driving the car great distances with the gas gauge reading empty. However, there were always good reasons for thus doing and one involved inevitable problems related to son Jon and also most of our Labs. Frequently having failed to gas up before setting out, well before the half way point the gas gauge would be registering empty, which had the family setting up relentless pleas to stop at the nearest fuelling point. Without exception, my goal was to reach a gas station/ice cream store half way to our destination, a point which from personal experience I knew was attainable. Jon and the Labs always resided in the rear in a small set of seats that faced backwards. There were several reasons for this seating. The first was that both were car sickness candidates and upon reaching this location there was sure to be a cleanup required, particularly due to the Lab. Next, the price of gasoline at this particular location was a few cents a litre less expensive than average. Most importantly though, they dispensed the most delicious ice cream including of course one for the dog. Providing an ice cream treat for the dog was not always wise though, as it would generally ensure another stop for a cleanup.

Inexplicably each of our three dogs could sense the oncoming large body of water, frozen over or not, at least 18 km from our destination. This always occasioned an onset of excitement that caused them to leap over seats, upset luggage and precipitate other unwelcome repercussions. Surprisingly the point of this reaction was always as we turned off the main paved highway onto a rough gravel road. By the time we turned into our cottage laneway, pandemonium would be in full swing. Upon opening the car door a wire roped tractor winch would not have been sufficient to restrain these dogs. A 10m run separated the car from the lake. It had no bearing whether winter or summer on the speed and joy with which they splashed in one giant leap into the water. If they found a thick layer of ice had formed over the entire surface their disappointment was palpable, until they discovered a consolation activity involving jumping back and forth from the giant 4m high snow drift that was usually present at such times, onto the cottage roof.

Smudge had one waterborne recreation that exceeded her thrill of swimming and which became a constant source of frustration. She loved boating and would not be left behind if a boat ride was involved. Besides locking her in the house or tying her up outside, nothing we could devise would prevent her ultimate presence as an essential member of her family in the boat. Over the years we devised a number of distractions that permitted us to leave the dock sans Smudge, but all ultimately ended in failure. As soon as she discovered the boat missing, she was smart enough to head for the water. When we would look back towards the shore, no matter how far we had managed to travel, there she would be swimming in our direction. It often came to my mind that if I kept on going she would give up and return shoreward. But armed with knowledge of the well-known swimming proficiency of Labs I always gave in and returned to pick her up from the water. With a 50 kg bundle of thrashing legs to contend with there was no humane method to reach over the side and pluck her from the water without tipping the boat. This meant consigning someone to the water and that patsy most frequently was me. Smudge always perceived me as some kind of slippery climbing device and she would scrabble, scratching her paws all over my upper body, in her endeavour to get into the boat. By the time I had succeeded in pushing her bum over the gunwale, my skin would be in shreds and felt akin to third degree burns. The end result was that I would end up covered with an ugly, pervasive and persistent looking red rash, ensuring most people would give me a wide berth until it healed.

Our cottage was located halfway along a 1km stretch of paved road. Few drivers could enter this segment without the pedal to the medal stance so speeding vehicles were the norm for us. This provided a good deal of concern for the safety of our dogs over the years, as being Labs they had little sense of fear or even recognition of any type of hazard. They wandered uninhibitedly back and forth and sometimes even stood for appreciable periods, like strange fearless vehicular voyeurs, in the centre of the roadway. Frequently we would here the screeching of brakes as some startled driver swerved to miss one of these miscreants. In all the years we occupied this cottage though, only once was any of the Labs hit by a car and of course, it was Smudge. In this case a local, Bob, in his usual inebriated state, managed a direct hit still at full throttle. Maureen in describing what she witnessed stated that the dog rumbled along under the car for a meter or so and then squirted free out the far side. Maureen dashed over the road expecting to find an unrecognizable mass of bleeding dead body in the ditch. Instead nothing living or dead could be located. For a few hours several of us, mostly in tears, made a frantic search of the roadside woods for her. No sign of Smudge or even a bloodied residue could be located. Even Bob, who had returned full of apologies and in morbid fear that we might call the police, was stumbling here and there attempting to help. He left his car running by the roadside repeatedly offering to drive us to the vet; a thought that provided almost the same degree of angst as not finding the dog. We had to call off our effort when it got too dark to be able to see anymore and retreated tearfully back to the cottage. As if nothing had happened and no doubt wondering about all the fuss, there lay Smudge, very slightly ruffled, on the front step. She had been patiently awaiting our return and no doubt bemoaning our negligence in the delay of her dinner.

Yes dinner and in fact any food was important to all of our Labs. Meals provided on time and in sufficient quantity, were an essential not to be questioned. Yet it was the unscheduled and often opportunistically acquired fodder that seemed most satisfying. Carelessly unguarded baking ingredients such as chocolate chips were particularly high on all our Labs' list. But one thanksgiving evening Smudge really landed the jackpot. Our neighbours, two cottages to the south, had been in the celebratory mode since early afternoon and were fine tuning the roasting of a particularly sumptuous ham. Unfortunately several factors conspired to cause the culinary calamity that follows. The ham had to be basted and while performing this duty with the ham poised precariously on the open oven door, someone shouted impatiently for another drink. The kitchen door had been propped open to provide cool fresh air. While the hostess went to pour a fresh drink and was making the delivery to the lounge room: Smudge having been attracted to the kitchen door by the aromas, made a dash to the open oven and purloined the unprotected ham. Attracted to our front lawn by a distant volley of shouted obscenities, I noted in horror our dog running towards our cottage with an 8 kg steaming hot ham held high and clutched firmly in her jaws. Meanwhile in distant pursuit was the