A Fable - Chapter 4

It took months for the king to recover from his injuries. During his recovery the queen was distracted from her normal activities with her son. In her place was a man considerably older and not nearly as attractive a countenance. His name was Tark Mees. But his years of life experiences had dressed him in patience, tolerance and humility. That was how he lived and what he taught.

Youth is impetuous and impatient. The prince was anxious to find answers to his questions. But anxious is the home of anxiety and what is quickly found is quickly forgotten. The old teacher taught the prince the power taking things in slowly, thoughtfully and thoroughly.

As the prince studied the teachings offered by the old man, he began to form questions of his own. One of the questions he asked nearly every day was, “Where is my mother?”  And the old man would answer, “She is managing the affairs of the kingdom. She will return when she is able. We have much to do during her absence. That is what you should be considering.”

Under the tutelage of the old man the prince grew taller and seemed to stand straighter. Each morning and each evening they would repeat the same words and physical exercises designed to help the prince reach the full potential of his capabilities. They would study the classic languages and letters, music, science and the spiritual teachings of Jesus, Buddha and other great teachers. But Tark Mees knew that the real growth of the prince had to be in the crucible of a public life.

Tark Mees went to the queen and asked her if she would allow him to take the prince into the kingdom anonymously as his own charge to face life on its own terms. He needed to take what he had learned in his safe environment and apply it in the theater of real life. He needed to face the world as he really was if he ever hoped to know true freedom. And, most importantly, he had to face the world as a free man who knew his strengths and weaknesses. He needed to deal with how he looked, how he behaved, what he knew and what he needed to know before he could ever find his voice and his direction.

The queen’s face showed the terrible fear in her heart when she heard the mentor ask the question. But, she knew it was the truth. With a heavy heart, but with a rock solid faith in the things her son had been taught and trust in the character she knew he had, the queen assented. She knew, if he were to be all that he could, his weaknesses as well as his promise had to stand the test of assault, unfairness, ignorance and prejudice before he could know the power of agreement and a following of like minded cohorts.

With the queens permission Tark Mees went back to the castle to tell the prince about their new adventure. He knew there would be fear but he believed there would be excitement as well.  What they were about to do was the essence of life itself. Is it not what we all do? We take what we have been taught along with the prejudice of our family of our superior qualities and potential and launch out into the world with what we have to see what we are. There we find those who agree and those who do not. What matters most, perhaps, is that we never stop learning, and the words that Tark Mees and the prince repeated each morning and each evening, "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he."

 The Beginning

 ©Herb Ratliff, November 30, 2012, All Rights Reserved

A Fable - Chapter 3

To the prince this was adventure of the highest order. He knew it was not right for him to be in his mother’s apartments, but the idea of seeing a completely new part of the world was too much for him to contain.  The room was tastefully appointed with all of the appropriate accoutrements for a queen. Even though the accommodations of the prince were lavish by any standard, his mother’s apartments reached a new level of grandeur. And, in the eyes of the prince, it was as it should be.

His exploration continued from one room to the next until he entered a room that contained a terrible and frightening sight. There on the opposite wall stood a menacing, gnomish creature, bent and twisted with a frightful face. It so startled the prince that he gasped and then screamed. He turned and ran as fast as he could back to his apartments into the arms of his waiting mother.

The prince was sobbing and shaking. His heart was beating so hard it could almost be heard. The attendants began to circle around mother and son as if it were a protective wall. The queen simply held the boy and let him calm in his own time. Gradually his breathing returned to its normal rhythm and his sobbing ceased. When he looked up into his mother’s eyes, she could see in his, both terror and confusion. She determined at this moment, as only the wise are inclined to do, that her best guide was to listen. She began with a question.

“What has frightened you so, my prince?”

“There is a terrible creature in your room!”

“In my room, how is it you know this?”

“I saw it in your dressing room.”

“You entered my apartments without my permission and found something frightening?”

“Yes, mother, I am so sorry. I shall never go in there again.”

“See that you do not. You must respect the privacy of others.”

“But, what was that mother?”

“We will discuss that later. Now, I want you to remember this: When I give you instructions that limit you, it is not to restrict you, but to give you time to prepare for the responsibility of knowledge when you receive it.”

The queen began a much more stringent schedule for her son. His education and spiritual growth needed some attention if he was to be ready to deal with the truth of his encounter with the frightening visage in his mother’s apartments. She began with a regimen of stretching to improve his posture which was noticeably being affected by his hunched back. She also brought in teachers of voice and instruments to give him access to the harmonies of life. Blended into this mix was a spiritual guide who offered the wisdom of ages past and books of scripture offering a good design for living.

What was most powerful to the son of course was the example set by his mother with her attributes of kindness, listening, sharing and teaching freely and openly.

The king had paid little attention to his son in person. However, from a distance he had watched the prince’s growth and observed his character. What struck the king most of all was how much his son’s character mirrored that of his mother. The king had even come to see a difference in the physical attributes of his son. Somehow the deficiencies of symmetry and reflections of other physical characteristics of members of the court seemed to diminish. What showed through were the sweetness of his disposition and the respectful nature of his behavior.

But, a kingdom is not without its politics. A small cadre of ambitious dukes began to plan an expansion of their duchies into another kingdom. When word leaked and found its way to the king he gathered his advisers and it was decided that a confrontation would be necessary to quell this ambitious enterprise. 

With a carefully developed plan, outlined to the most minute detail, the king gathered his forces and led them to end this plan to divide the kingdom. But even in the most ideal of kingdoms, there are those who for power or money would sell their soul. A traitor had leaked the plan to the dukes and they had a plan of their own.

The king led his forces into a trap which very nearly cost him his life.

To be continued…

©Herb Ratliff, November 28, 2012, All Rights Reserved

A Fable - Chapter 2

What had upset and confused the king was indeed the birth of a child. The child was a son and under normal circumstances that fact alone would be enough to bring joy to the king and to his subjects. But the son who was born was not the child the king expected. This child had a deformed body and an unspeakable countenance. The king wanted to love his son but his physical ugliness was more than the king could bear. He had the child taken to a private chamber to be cared for out of his sight until he could muster the courage to accept him as he was.

The queen was deeply hurt and surprised by the king’s attitude. She did not understand how the king could judge his child only by his features. Did he not carry the same blood as the king? Was he not the son of the king? But the king would not relent. He kept his son in private quarters and ignored him.

As an infant this fatherly rejection made no impact on the child for he had the love and attention of his mother and loving attendants. And so he grew at the rate of any child. Since he had no means of comparison the somewhat insular conditions of his existence had no particular impact on him nor did the absence of his father. The prince’s apartments and courtyard were furnished with spectacular resources for his care, entertainment and education. He never noticed the absence of a mirror and since his mother was beautiful, he assumed he was beautiful too.

His mother had an apartment next to his, but it was understood that it was private and not to be entered. He took no complaint with that arrangement as a small child but we are gifted or cursed with curiosity as children depending on your point of view and the prince began to wonder about the room his mother went to when she left him.

The queen had long since learned to love her child as he was. There was no consideration of his differences. This led to a comfortable and happy relationship. Her only worry was that he would discover his differences and be injured by the knowledge that he was different. With that in mind special attention was given to keeping him ignorant of his looks even though those around him were charmed by his personality to the point of forgetting his unhappy countenance.

The beauty of the human condition is such that if there is beauty in our actions our looks take on less importance at first and then are magically changed to match our behavior. Perhaps never by all, but certainly, by those who know us. And so it was that the prince was to his retinue, a most beautiful child until one sad day when a happy, but careless chamber maid left his mother’s apartment door ajar.

To the prince, who had been left for a rest period, it was an open invitation for an adventure into a new world. And he could do no less than accept the invitation; he was after all a happy, healthy and normal little boy with natural curiosities. So even though he had been schooled on the importance of privacy and the courtesy of allowing his mother to have her own space, the door was open and he had never seen inside the room.

Reluctantly at first and then with great intensity he moved toward the open door and the promise of adventure. He looked inside and there across the room was a strange object hanging on the wall that looked like a pool of water. He walked toward it to see what secrets it held.  

To be continued…

©Herb Ratliff, November 28, 2012, All Rights Reserved

A Fable

There was a king in a far away land whose good will and kindness to his subjects was legendary. He was tall, intelligent and had a strikingly handsome face. His queen was equally dedicated to her subjects and she was as beautiful as the morning star. Their union lifted the spirits of the kingdom and with it the promise of a new prosperity.

For years the king and queen built the kingdom into a paradise with new roads, farm houses, hunting grounds and markets. The people waited for the announcement of a new member of the royal family but as each year passed no such announcement was made. There was speculation among the court and in the fields that the queen was barren. How could this kingdom be sustained if there was no heir to maintain the promises of the king?

Then, word began to trickle out of corners of the kitchen and stables that there was indeed a child, but not the child that was expected. The workers were steadfast in their love for their masters and little more information ever came out to the general population. Of course the people began to speculate about this mysterious child. First, the people thought the child was so beautiful and delicate that it needed protecting from the eyes of the general population. Then, some said the child was being prepared for the duties of royalty and was not yet ready to make a public appearance.

The wondering about the child and the speculation about it began to erode the confidence of the subjects. And, as is the tendency in such matters, the more the confidence in the king weakened, the more blame found its way to the supposed child. The king and queen were not without knowledge of this growing discontent, but they had a problem.

Royalty is not without its downside. Many of us suppose the life of grandeur and privilege, but always manage to leave out the responsibility of such a life. The king and queen had carefully built a world of harmony and equanimity in their kingdom by being open and inclusive with their subjects. In return the subjects were trusting and constructive in their behavior. This new element of what seemed to be secrecy and separation had begun to alienate the common folk. But, because the king had waited so long to tell his people about the situation he had created a difficult and complicated problem. This would require consultation with the queen and his inner circle of advisers.

Now the king was an honest man with great integrity and so was his queen. But, as is so often the case, honesty is more easily applied if there is no negative impact on our own life. That is why honesty seems so much clearer in cases involving someone other than ourselves. It is also far easier to apply honesty as early as possible since waiting seems to introduce additional elements that grow out of control in a hurry. The king wanted to right this growing dissonance that was permeating his kingdom but he kept thinking of reasons the simple truth would be harmful to his subjects.

So after hours of discussing the problem and against the will of his queen and counselors the king decided he would take matters in his own hands and under the veil of secrecy make a move that utterly confused and unsettled his beautiful queen and his capable and faithful counselors. 

To be continued…

©Herb Ratliff, November 27, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Eight Legs

When your two year old son wakes you up at three o’clock in the morning there had better be a very good reason, and as it turned out, there was.

There is no challenge that even comes close to that of parenting a first child. There is a natural fascination to be sure but just because they are diminutive does not mean they are without will or wile. Far too much value has been placed on size. There are many compensating qualities that can be used to even the contest or perhaps stack it to the advantage of the smaller of the two.

I grew up with younger sisters and so infants and small children were not unfamiliar to me. However, being a brother and being a father are vastly different conditions. The time I spent with my new son was not always filled with harps and violins. There was a completely new condition of inconvenience that had to be shouldered from time to time. But, to be sure, it was a very small part of the equation.

Infancy is not the part I enjoyed most. But, I will be quick to say that infancy is a magical time too. There is a spiritual relationship that is introduced which can be as exhilarating as anything you will ever do. All you need do to experience it is to sit and hold an infant in your arms with no agenda but to be there. If you do not feel God embrace you both, you are thinking too much.

Let’s get back to the two year old waking me at three in the morning. First let me just note a natural tendency for a new parent to do too much. I was guilty of that. I tried to teach my son everything I knew in the first year. I wanted to give him a head start. I explained things to him. Sometimes his eyes were so filled with wonder that I should have known I was pushing beyond reason, but I didn’t stop. We talked about music, science, politics and sports. Most of what we talked about was nature and words.

One of the things that have always fascinated me is spiders. So we explored nature for spiders in their natural setting. We looked at the spiders, their features and webs. We looked in nature, at home and in the yard. I told him that spiders were ubiquitous creatures and could be found in every setting imaginable. I instructed him about their anatomy. We even discussed their parenting skills. Spiders are not the only things we talked about but they got a considerable amount of attention.

Bud, my son’s sobriquet, was also a talented artist for his age. We would often use the large brown bags that groceries were packaged in for his canvas. We would cut the bag along its folds until it was completely opened. The artist would then be able to imagine in full size. Now you have the necessary building blocks for this story.

Bud was given to night time wanderings. His sleep patterns varied away from the convenient. On the night I opened this narrative with, he had gotten out of bed at some point…. let me just recall the event as it happened.

My wife and I were happily asleep in our comfy bed as was most of the world at three o’clock in the morning in the Flint, Michigan area in 1972. There was a tug at my arm. It would take more than a little tug to unhook me from a sound sleep so I’m sure there were several tugs and finally a strong enough tug to loose me from Morpheus’s grasp. There in his full splendor was Bud with a rather large smile on his face with his most intense look which could only mean something needed tending. As I slowly came to life I noticed a lot of light coming from outside the bedroom. I questioned my son and he could do no more than insist I come with him.

I turned to see if my wife was awake. I think I saw her eyes close quickly as I turned. I looked back at my child who was anxious and focused. I knew the jig was up. I got out of bed and hand in hand we walked through the house which I easily noticed had every light in it turned on. Our destination was the kitchen. When we arrived I saw brown paper bags cut to artist requirements on the floor along with crayons and magic markers.

Now Bud was excited! He took me directly to one of the paper bag canvasses. I knelt down and he said in his most enthusiastic voice, “pider”. And there on the brown paper bag were dozens of spiders drawn by this two year old, each with exactly eight legs. I was astounded. I was proud. I was amazed. And, truth be told, I haven’t stopped being amazed by him or any of my children. What a gift to be a parent who can make it a gift to be a child. Celebrate life, celebrate learning, celebrate children.

©Herb Ratliff, November 26, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Thanksgiving Morning

Thanksgiving morning was announced by aromas from the kitchen not a part of daily fare. The turkey, although early in its temptations offered promises not smelled since the year before. Pies, baked late at night, sat in unusual locations tempting us in unfair ways knowing full well they would be the last to delight our anticipations. The king of all the smells was mince meat pie.

Somehow a bowl of oatmeal or cheerios lost its luster in those surroundings. But mother’s eagle eye saw all attempts of unauthorized tasting. The most difficult wait for me was rolls. The yeasty scent of rising rolls sat three hours and teased out taste buds. And if that was not enough there was also a batch of frosted cinnamon rolls in the works as well.

The kitchen was small in size but large in promise in those days. Mothers unceasing efforts at preparation began days before and would reach culmination later on this day. The last items would be rolls out of the oven, marshmallow covered sweet potatoes and the twenty four hour fruit salad in the middle of the table, made only twice a year on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Remember that gratitude is the aristocrat of all emotions and whatever you have is probably more than what 90% of the world’s population has.

Happy Thanksgiving.

©Herb Ratliff, November 21, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Bev's Bear

I am the second child in a family of six children. My oldest sibling is a sister. All four of those younger than me are sisters too. I know that my oldest sister thought me a pest for most of my younger years. The opinion of my younger sisters was not always that clear. I think it ran a fairly predictable range from hero to brat. Hero when I was away at college, brat when I was at home and not living up to expectations. As you might well expect, each of them were adorable, agreeable and cute.

What I was thinking about was a birthday. Specifically, it was the birthday of Beverly Jean who still inhabited her crib during sleeping hours. She was not an infant but rather on the higher end of the ascending age of crib inhabitants. That is to say, she was not pleased to be there but it had the unique quality of keeping her in a predictable place.

I do not recall the circumstances of this birthday other than to say I felt a great need to do something special for Beverly. I had been in Grosse Pointe for some reason or another. I think it might have had to do with a certain girl I was dating. Whatever the reason, it put me near an F.A.O. Swartz Store and a fantastic supply of birthday gift possibilities.

After an hour of diversions beyond normal limits I came upon a rather large stuffed Paddington Bear, complete with raingear and boots. Perfect! I bought the bear confident that I would achieve immortality in the eyes of my adoring sister. I knew her gratitude would be boundless for such a unique and special gift.

It was, in fact, the day of her birthday when I made the purchase so I could think of nothing better than to take directly to her. And that is exactly what I did, but the results were not quite what I expected.

When I arrived at home Bev was taking a nap. I asked if she was asleep yet and was told she was not. I asked permission to take her the bear, granted. I opened the bedroom door quietly to be sure she was still awake and saw her little head peeking over the top of the handrail. I opened the door fully with Padding just out of her sight and in back of me. I began by singing Happy Birthday and then produced the full sized Paddington Bear. She looked at the bear as if it were a monster of epic proportion and screamed at the top of her lungs. When I took the bear to her and attempted to put it in her crib. She went postal.

In all my experiences of giving gifts that represents the absolute zenith in rejection. I should have learned something from that experience but I probably haven’t.  I still tend to give people things that I like. Maybe not like a router bit to a girlfriend but still I think about what excites me and figure that’s going to hang the moon. So I thought I’d tell this tale before you spend all of your money shopping for Christmas, just in case you suffer from the same myopia I do. Sorry Bev!

©Herb Ratliff, November 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Dad's Words

My dad had a fascination for words. He was not big on writing or even speaking but he investigated words in the dictionary and he read the word section of Reader’s Digest with enthusiasm. There was also an employee booklet put out by General Motors that he had picked up about vocabulary building which he carried with him.

He took great pleasure in finding words that were unusual and rarely a part of ones daily vocabulary. It would be more accurate to say, not a part of our family’s daily vocabulary. You could almost see him light up with excitement as he was preparing to use the word as if it were the most common word in the English language. After he casually let it slide into an ordinary sentence about some proletarian event he would sit like a crouching tiger to see if it awoke any interest in his audience.

If there was a reaction he was unable to contain his delight. His smile would light the room. His moment of superiority was not pompous, it was sustaining. And the inevitable question of what it meant would instantly create his teaching moment. He would look at the questioner with affection and a bit of superiority and say, “Look it up.”

He knew the power of learning came from personal ownership of the material. So, as much as he would have enjoyed showing his knowledge off, he allowed the interested party to own it themselves. And that, could only come with a bit of effort.

I never got to know my father very well but there are parts of his influence that show up from time to time. And since I am a great lover of words and the way they carry meaning, I just thought I’d tell you about one of the great influences of my life who taught me the power of a dynamic vocabulary that has a little hot sauce in it. Thanks Dad. 

©Herb Ratliff, November 19, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Autumn's Exit

The sun kicks back in its winter recliner

Closer, but not as a warm - like an insincere embrace,

From a form-only friend.

The dried leaves rattle across the dying grass

Like fiddler crabs playing end of season

solos

For an inattentive audience.

Autumn darts in and out of my vision

Like a dying wasp, starving

but unwilling 

to die.

©Herb Ratliff, November 14, 2011, All Rights Reserved

The Red Maple

There is a Red Maple just across the street clinging to every leaf with a tenacity demonstrated by the absence of leaves on other trees around it. Perhaps it’s there to remind me of a heart, arguably, the single most important part of our body. Perhaps it’s there as a gift of color on a landscape that has become flat, dull and without interest. Whatever the reason, I go to it often as I look outside. Why not? I can choose what to focus on.

So I choose the red tree.

Herb Ratliff, November 14, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Taking Care of the Things You Love

Fly fishing is not just about catching fish. There is a lot more to the dance than that. But, there is always the underlying intent to combine the beauty of a place, a feeling and an action. And it turns out feeling a trout on the end of your leader is an excellent way to accomplish that end.

My aunt Lorna lives in Orem, Utah not too far from the Provo River. Provo Canyon is as pretty a place as you could ask for and the river is the home of some mighty fine trout. So even though it is a long way from home I really like to go there from time to time.

On one such occasion a few years ago I had an experience few people ever have. It was one of those serendipitous moments rarely handed out by the fishing fates that came to me.

I had been in Orem for a couple of days and enjoyed the company of my aunt and cousins. The weather had been perfect and in the back of my mind I had been thinking, “I should be fishing.” By the third day I could wait no longer so I excused myself and headed for the river.

The wind was a bit high for fly fishing but that would not stop me from my appointment with the river. The drive up the canyon would take me to a spot that was a favorite of the locals but I had no time to search for private fishing. I just wanted to get in the water. I pulled into an area where a couple of cars were parked. Two cars, that’s not bad I thought and commenced preparing my gear. It was about that time that I remembered I had not bought any flys at the local outfitters nor had I discussed what insects were on the water.

At that point my fishing ego took over and I figured I had plenty of flys and would be fine without the help of anyone else. I prepared my gear and dressed in waders and vest. The wind had kicked up a bit but it was more nuisance than problem. I entered the stream and began short casts upstream.  Upstream was against the wind. I fish with a twelve foot leader in that water because of its clarity. The long leader means short fly line which is what adds sufficient weight to cast the line. The result of all this was tangled line.

I changed strategy and cast across the river. After an hour of less than stellar results I happened upon another fisherman and ask what fly was best for this time of year. He told me and I must have looked perplexed because he stopped and we talked a bit. He offered me a fly and I took it with thanks. I immediately tied it on and immediately had a strike. I caught a fifteen inch brown and felt like the world was right.

The wind began to blow with more fervor. I landed a couple more fish and then the wind caught one of my more ambitious casts and blew it into an overhanging tree limb. It was much too high to retrieve. I had no choice but to break it off. Now I had a high wind and no flies appropriate to the task. Not to be denied I decided to go big. I tied on a large coachman streamer. I looked around and saw a gnarled tree root against the bank on the other side of the river. It was a perfect place for a monster trout to rest.

The root jutted out toward midstream and created a little eddy between it and the bank.

There the water was quieter and that was where I wanted to make my cast. Between the wind and the weight of the fly I was having more than a little difficulty in achieving my goal. Finally, after great effort I made a cast that was headed exactly where I wanted it to go when a giant gust of wind caught the line and threw it right at the root. I pulled back on the cast to redirect the line but it was too late. The line went directly into the root.

 I quickly pulled back to get the line out of the water but it stuck. It was attached to the root I figured so I began horsing the line to either pull it loose or break it off. I was about to give it another huge, straight line pull when …it pulled back.

It took an hour to land that big brown. By my scale it was just under eight pounds. I was exhausted; she was exhausted and full of eggs.

I looked at her and she looked at me. I kissed her on the forehead and gently put her back in her home to raise some little trout which could grow big. After all, a good fisherman is a good steward. You have to take care of the things you love or they go away.

©Herb Ratliff, November 13, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Veterans Day

I never served in the Armed Services. I went to get my physical in early 1965. When I got on the bus there were several classmates from high school on it too. None of the people on that bus had much interest in going to Viet Nam. I never did, when I received my classification a few weeks later I was 1-Y. But a number of my peers did go and some never came back. Those that did come back never were the same. 

For their sacrifice, bravery and commitment to serve their country I salute them. For those who gave their lives and those who gave their wholeness I stand in awe and gratitude. This is dedicated to you.

Here's a little background on how this day came to be.


Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, with the German signing of the Armistice.

U.S. President Woodrow Wilson first proclaimed Armistice Day for November 11, 1919. In proclaiming the holiday, he said:
"To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations."

The United States Congress passed a concurrent resolution seven years later on June 4, 1926, requesting that President Calvin Coolidge issue another proclamation to observe November 11 with appropriate ceremonies. A Congressional Act (52 Stat. 351; 5 U.S. Code, Sec. 87a) approved May 13, 1938, made the 11th of November in each year a legal holiday: "a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as 'Armistice Day'."

In 1945, WWII veteran Raymond Weeks from Birmingham, Alabama, had the idea to expand Armistice Day to celebrate all veterans, not just those who died in World War I. Weeks led a delegation to Gen. Dwight Eisenhower, who supported the idea of National Veterans Day. Weeks led the first national celebration in 1947 in Alabama and annually until his death in 1985. President Reagan honored Weeks at the White House with the Presidential Citizenship Medal in 1982 as the driving force for the national holiday. Elizabeth Dole, who prepared the briefing for President Reagan, determined Weeks as the "Father of Veterans Day."

U.S. Representative Ed Rees from Emporia, Kansas, presented a bill establishing the holiday through Congress. President Dwight Eisenhower, also from Kansas, signed the bill into law on May 26, 1954.

Congress amended this act on June 1, 1954, replacing "Armistice" with "Veterans," and it has been known as Veterans Day since.

Mr. Basner - Green, Green Grass of Home

It took a couple of weeks for me to gird up my loins, so to speak, and make the walk across the street to his yard while he was working. He had never been big on starting conversations or visiting with neighbors. But somewhere I had heard the phrase, “All they can do is say no.” so I marched across the street and introduced myself with as much confidence as I could muster. 

After I told him who I was, he just glared at me. 

It wasn't going any better than I imagined. 

Then, I explained that all I wanted was to ask him a question. 

He continued to glare. 

I waited for him to give me permission. 

He glared. 

Finally, he said, “Well, what is it?” 

So, I explained about the grass and that I wasn't sure what to do next. 

He looked at me like I had just brought him a birthday present. The smile was so unusual it almost frightened me.

He stopped watering his grass and looked at me like a grandpa. There began an amazing friendship that was the surprise of my life. We talked every day. He told me about preparing the soil. He said I’d need to spade the ground and break up the clumps. That took a long time because it was about the consistency of concrete. He even loaned me a shovel to do the work. He also suggested watering the soil first for a few days to get some moisture in it. That made a huge difference.

He explained fertilizer, different kinds of grass seed and which seed and fertilizer was best for the area I was planting. He told me about watering the grass and what time of day to get the most value from watering. He told me to fence the area and to keep it moist enough to make it unpleasant for people to walk on the wet ground. I took some hits on that part, but after some muddy shoes and a slip or two things settled into a pretty good rhythm.

When the grass began to grow I got very excited. I hadn't ever planted anything before so the miracle of new life happened for me as a tiny patch of lawn. I treated it like it was being prepared for the Master’s Tournament, sort of. I didn't know what the Master’s Tournament was but I knew the new grass was special. I could see that. 

I monitored traffic. All incursions on the lawn were met with an enthusiastic warning that it was not yet ready for foot traffic.

When it had achieved an appropriate root system and had lost the new, baby grass look, I took down the twine fence with the little strips of white fabric hanging from it. As soon as I pulled out the stakes and watered it I went over and invited Mr. Basner to come and look at my masterpiece. He seemed very pleased at the invitation. We walked across the street together like two old friends. He looked at the lawn and then at me. A warm smile came across his face and he said, “Good job.”

Nothing could have made me happier, nothing.

©Herb Ratliff, November 9, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Mr. Basner

I grew up in a house with a father who was at work from 9:00 AM until 12:00 PM Monday through Saturday. That left little time for father and son outings and all but no time for maintenance projects around the house. Not surprisingly, those activities fell to me. The fact that I had no one to teach me how to do those maintenance tasks was a problem whose solution was also left to me.

I never resisted the responsibility that was given to me. I was a bit awed by the tasks at times but I sought help where I could find it. Some of the projects were more daunting than others. I was expected to cut the grass. The first time I encountered this activity was at the age of nine.

When I was nine gasoline lawn mowers were not a common household tool. The common tool was a push mower with a cylindrical set of cutting blades which required considerable strength to operate. If the grass achieved any substantive height the project was all but insurmountable. It was on this machine that I learned about friction and how to minimize it.

Another task that fell into my area of responsibility was creating grass where none existed. This came to me not from a parent but by looking around at other lawns and seeing that ours was not the same as the others.

The area of particular interest was a small bit of turf, perhaps fifteen feet by fifteen feet. It was an area that lay between the car and the front steps. And here I must add that the would-be lawn addition was not of great importance to anyone in the house except me. As a result of that household attitude little consideration was given to what needed to happen to create this new lawn.

I dug around in our garage to find a garden rake with which I scarified the dirt. I spread grass seed on the ground, sprayed some water on it and over time watched the family trample it, birds eat the seeds and wind and water disperse seed until there was no chance for anything to grow.

Undaunted, I tried again but this time I made a small fence of twine and bits of white fabric to encircle the area of interest. This provocation was met with serious complaint from all but the gardener, that’s me. It was eventually trampled down by people who hated grass and I was reduced to a state of confusion and dismay.

It was then that I began to look around the neighborhood for an advocate and teacher. But, the only person who fell into my range struck no one as either advocate or teacher. That he understood grass and how to grow it was quite clear but he had a troublesome look, a scowling face and an inclination that appeared to be anti social. It was entirely possible that he could freeze you with an icy glare.

He lived just across the street but he could not have been any farther away. I was absolutely paralyzed by fear when I saw him. He had never done anything to me or anyone I knew but he had potential. At least I thought he did. And I didn't want to be the first casualty. But I really wanted to plant that grass and he might be the only chance I had.

©Herb Ratliff, November 8, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Late Fall

The soft tans of dying grass,

fluff from seed parachutes,

purple flowers and savaging yellow jackets,

sag and slow in the wet decline

of grey months before winter.

It is the beginning of wool appreciation season,

orange gourds that grimace and wink at

goblins and ghouls, raggedy Ann and Andy,

kittens and superheroes in search of sugar treats

to stuff their larders for winter.

Herb Ratliff, November 7, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Prosperity or More of the Same?

It’s an interesting day today, Election Day. On a broad spectrum it is a privilege and an honor to be able to be a part of the electorate which selects the president of the United States.

We are not a happy citizenry. We have eliminated would be volunteers for the job down to two men. The incumbent, Barack Obama who has primarily been the benefactor of America’s Liberal sector who wants a pal in the White House who shows well at a rally, speaks well to a crowd and blames the state of the nation on people and circumstances that are out of his control. Therefore, he has no responsibility for our outlandish national debt, absurd unemployment rate, increased cost of living and diminishing personal income to name but a few of the miserable conditions in the land of the free.

The other choice is man who donated his family inheritance to build a building at a university, earned his personal wealth through hard work and good management skills. He is an exemplary father, husband, community leader, citizen and statesman. His strength is in his ability to take responsibility for that which he manages and work with those who agree and disagree with him until the best results benefit the most. He knows how to make capitalism work and how to make a profit. We could use that in our country right now because the only people benefiting from our efforts live somewhere else.

So vote today for whomever you feel will lead this country into a position of strength, responsibility and examples that we can be proud to call our own.

But let’s stop pointing fingers and calling names. We are better than that. What we urgently need is a common cause, a common pride, and a common hope that we can be better for ourselves, our children and our world.

Herb Ratliff, November 4, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Time

When you’re five time’s like a kitten,

full of fun, chasing shadows.

When you’re twelve she’s like a tortoise,

Ponderous, slow like a snail goes.

In your teens, she’s like a gerbil

running fast upon the wheel

When you wed then she’s a despot,

Who makes you lie or even steal?

Then your babies come in time, when

nothing ever is in synch.

All the places you must go to

and there’s never time to think.

Before you know what happened to you,

when you thought to get a break.

Kids are gone and grands are coming

All you do is sit and think.

Then you wonder, are they coming.

“Sorry, dad can’t make it now.”

Time’s become an evil serpent

twisting, sliding inside out.

Time won’t bargain or appease you

when you need her love the most.

It’s too late by then to argue

with that evil, spiteful host.

Time has only one rejoinder

that will get you anywhere

Learn respect of her conditions

use them well, and never fear.

Herb Ratliff, November 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved

For What It's Worth

It was one year ago today that I started my blog. My objective was to write something every day Monday through Friday. I did not accomplish that goal.

What I did accomplish was 200 individual offerings that were published to the blog site. Some were poems, some were clippings from other writers, singers or philosophers but most were from me and thoughts that rattle around in my head. I hope one or two reached you in some way that was useful. I had a wonderful time.

I also wrote 14 pieces that were relegated to the unpublished section. They need more work, actually I wrote a lot more than 14. Those are the ones I kept for further development. I wrote another 35 that were too personal for a blog. Things that fall into the family history file.

I read a book while I was writing by Stephen King, On Writing. It's a fabulous book and if writing is something you'd like to try I strongly recommend you read it. I found it charming, interesting and very informative. It would do me a lot more good if I would actually use the suggestions he offered like waiting a significant amount of time before publishing what I write. That just doesn't work for a blog with a self imposed deadline.

I heard from far fewer people than I hoped I would. But, I heard from some people I never expected to. You just cannot plan kismet.

I was often surprised by the response to what I wrote. I knew what I felt about my offerings but the impact of some of the pieces, frankly, surprised me. The absence of interest in some of the pieces surprised me too. That's why they make chocolate and vanilla, eh?

I don't know what I will do from here on out. I need to think it over. I like writing, I like to be read and I like having a forum for discussion. If either of you who read this have any suggestions I'd love to hear them.

Herb Ratliff, November 1, 2012, All Rights Reserved