Nothing but the Truth

I've been trying to remember the earliest event in my life that I can recall in some detail. Most memories of early childhood are more akin to a panel or two from a Sunday Cartoon page. Not because they are funny or a vehicle for satire but because there simply isn’t enough trapped information to give it a beginning, a middle and an end. The other difficult part of such memories is memory.

I have been writing stories about my life for about nine months now. They have not been based on any chronological order just what I remember. In one such story about my father, my sister, Jo Ann told me the information in my story was incorrect. That has to be true because her story didn’t have the same details as mine but as far as I am concerned it’s her story that is wrong. And I know that is true because I have the memories to substantiate it.

So what, exactly, is a memory of a childhood event if not a combination of history, belief and idealization mixed with a little fantasy? The truth is what is in your head. It isn’t as if you are knowingly reorganizing or manufacturing data to misrepresent an historical fact. The story my sister took exception to was as clear to her as my recollection was to me. The big difference in that particular incident was two other sisters who agreed with her memory of the story. I’ve always felt like an outsider, who wouldn’t as the only male among five sisters?

I read an article once that described what happens in memories. What I recall is this: When an incident occurs we almost immediately lose a large percentage of the details of the event. A large percentage of those lost details are gone forever. The parts that are most important remain in our more immediate memory and are retrievable but not necessarily accurate. Then there is the matter of the connecting material.

What happens is the brain realizes the story has to flow. If part of the story is missing the flow is interrupted. The brain doesn’t like interruptions or premature ends to its stories so it fills in the missing information with plausible or preferred flow material. That changes the story but might even make it a better one. We may like that story better than the real one so that becomes the story. See?

You are a human being with a brain that does what it wants sometimes. That does not make you a prevaricator or inaccurate purveyor of historical events. It makes you an extemporaneous historical information creator who smoothes out the potholes of failing memory. It just works better if you can avoid people who were at the same places you were when the events happened.

In no way is it my intention to appear critical of my sister(s), I’m only interested in enlightening my readers with relevant information about these stories I tell. I applaud their interest in the accuracy of my meanderings. I just beg their indulgence and yours when there appears to be a discrepancy in the facts. I would never deceive you dear reader, never.

Herb Ratliff, August 29, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Part III - This is Your Captain Speaking - Camelot, Richard Burton and...

Part III

 Conclusion of: This is Your Captain Speaking

For unexpected behavior nothing rivals people. I have always been an avid observer of animals. I have also read a number of books about animal behavior. Desmond Morris wrote a fascinating book called The Human Zoo. In the book he describes characteristics of chimps in a social grouping. It presents a very convincing case for their behavior mirroring our own or more likely the other way round.

I could scarcely believe what had just happened between the Australian woman and her friends.  I could find no reason why she would start an altercation among her friends without provocation. However, there was a chapter in Morris’s book that did just that. Whatever the reason, it had no bearing on my plans for the evening. I certainly couldn’t do anything about it and as it turned out I had just enough time to grab a bite to eat and get ready for the theater.

There is a great little restaurant downstairs from the lobby of the hotel called Vienna Coffee House. It’s a great place for any meal but I found myself there for breakfast and dinner on a pretty regular schedule. The wait staff was very well schooled in the service ethic. They made you feel at home and were quick without hurrying.  There was a predictable clientele that frequented the rooms and we all showed up about the same time for our evening meal. It was one of those natural harmonies that formed without being planned.

When I arrived on most occasions there was a man with snow white hair and a navy blue uniform of some kind that implied sailing. I later learned that his wife lived in Hong Kong and he resided here as the Executive Director of the Pacific-Union Club. At the time of the event I am recalling I did not know his name or his calling. That would come later. Another man, quite elderly would also be present and seated along with his Scottish terrier. I had met him and his companion. He lived at the hotel in a penthouse apartment, the only apartment. His name was I. Magnin. Yep, that’s the one.

If the schedule was in its natural flow the next arrival would be a woman with long dark hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. She was then and has remained a complete mystery even though we nodded to each other many times over the course of my stays at the hotel. She only attended for dinner.

Finally, always in quick step with perfect posture, impeccable dress and a courteous yet clipped pattern of speech Mr. David Thorn, General Manager of the hotel would arrive. He would sit at the very end of the coffee counter and order claret in a bulbous stemmed glass. That would be followed with his order for a New York Strip Steak, medium rare and baked potato. The salad required no comment from him. That must have been memorized.

Not this particular evening but once while in that harmonic pattern I had been waiting without the usual quick and courteous service from the wait staff. When Mr. Thorn made his entrance and sat down, but before he ordered, I interrupted the silence with, “Now that Mr. Thorn has arrived perhaps we can begin.” The comment was followed by a remarkably loud silence that seemed to extend beyond reason. Everyone was looking straight at me with a look of utter despair except Mr. Thorn. His eyes were trained upon mine but he was completely unruffled. Then, he broke easily into an unrestrained belly laugh. “My apologies for being tardy,” he said and the entire room joined in a chorus of laughter. From that moment on we all had a connection that was quite unique.

But, I digress, back to the night of the story at hand. I had a quick and simple meal, returned to my room and dressed for the theater. It would be the Orpheum tonight, a beautiful venue for one of my favorite plays, Camelot. I asked the doorman to order a cab and went to the theater.

The theater was clearly sold out. The magic of a gifted concierge is not to be trifled with. I looked at my tickets for the first time. I had not been in the theater before so I ask for assistance. My seat was in the orchestra section, fourth row and dead center, beautiful. This was Burton's last performance in Camelot. And, for my money, he was the only actor who could do justice to the role. It was time for things to change for the better. I was a bit early so people were still finding their seats but my location caused no impedance to anyone. I simply sat back and enjoyed a little people watching. I had the best seat in town.

It took only a short while to fill the seats. It was nearly time for the curtains to open when I noticed the empty seat on my right. That’s odd, I thought. That must be the only empty seat in the house, one seat?  Oh well, doesn’t matter. The lights began to dim when I heard a disturbance. From back by the doorways to the auditorium a latecomer was making a fuss about something. They were coming down toward the Orchestra section. I turned to see what was happening and there at the intersection of the aisle and the fourth row, just as the lights went down and the curtain was drawing open stood the woman from Australia. I was reduced to a state of complete emptiness and utter consternation.

There is a feeling that goes with realizing you are inextricably conjoined to your fate and it is not a good one. I didn’t want to leave, I wanted her to evaporate and leave me alone. Then I started thinking of disguises. Logic disappears in the face of abject terror. Short of putting my overcoat on my head I could come up with nothing. Ignore her. Yes, I would ignore her.

She did not display even the tiniest amount of grace as she stumbled into the center of the fourth row. The overture was playing and the stage was set for the opening scene. She nudged me. I ignored her. She pushed me and began to apologize loudly. With as much distance as I could muster I assured her that her apology was unnecessary. I remained fixed on the stage. She remained fixed on me and her apology. I finally turned to her and looked directly into her eyes. I told her that I accepted her apology, thanked her and reminded her of the play that had begun. I explained that I wanted to focus on the stage and urged her to do the same. She continued to talk to me. I turned the temperature of my right shoulder down to its lowest setting and refused to allow her to see that I was disturbed. She began to cry. She didn’t just whimper and sniffle, she cried out loud with large gasps, snorts and moans. I remained in a state of frozen stoicism. I tried desperately to ignore the woman and engage with the play. It wasn’t working. The assault on my mind, my spirit and my body continued until intermission.

When the lights came up I turned away from the woman and headed in the opposite direction I expected her to travel. When I got to the lobby I discovered that she had either stayed in her seat or gone the other way. She was no where to be seen. I went outside and smoked four cigarettes all at once. OK, that’s not quite true but you get my meaning. As the nicotine began to calm my body and mind I was able to relax a bit and gather myself. That was not good because then I started worrying about the second half of the program. Should I just bag the whole thing and go back to the hotel? Why should I be the one punished? No, I would go back but if she so much as looked at me I would report her to security. So, it was settled. The lobby lights flashed signaling us to return to our seats. I took a deep breath and began walking toward my seat.

My heart was beating slightly faster than normal as I contemplated my fate. When I got to my row the Australian woman was no where in sight. There was still a little time before opening curtain so I settled into my seat. There was an unnatural interest in me by the patrons surrounding my seat. At first I nodded and smiled. Then, realizing they were not acknowledging me because of my wit and charm, but because they too were worried about the remainder of the play, I pulled within myself and pretended to be very interested in my program. The lights dimmed, the curtain opened and the music began. It was time to lose myself in the play and so I did.

She didn’t return to her seat. And while I did suffer some angst waiting for her to show up, I gradually forgot about her. And that’s what simple folks do, so they say.

By the time the play ended and Richard Burton made his multiple curtain calls I had all but forgotten about the strange woman from Australia. I walked back to the Hotel. I needed it. It had been a very long day. I was very, very tired. When I placed my head on the down pillow all my troubles went away and I fell asleep like a new born baby. I had no idea this ridiculous vaudeville act was anything but over.

What’s left of the story can be told in just a few words. There was one more encounter with the woman from Australia and it happened in the Lobby Bar at the Mark Hopkins. It was essentially a replay of the first encounter. I was sitting at the bar after work a couple of days later. She came over when she saw me to apologize for the previous encounters. She began with apologies, they turned into tears, her friends came to rescue her, she fought with them and they took her away. And that was it! I never saw her again.

There was however one more piece that tied it all together. The last day I was there, after I checked out, I stopped by the concierge, Dan Sotelo’s desk to thank him for the ticket for Camelot.  He wasn’t busy and I wasn’t in a hurry so I asked him if he had a minute to hear about the crazy tale of the Australian woman. He said he did.

When I finished telling him he actually blushed. It seems the woman had been to see him before me and ordered two tickets for the play. When I came and picked up my ticket he gave me one of those seats. That, of course, explained why we were sitting together. He thought we were together surreptitiously. The reason he thought we were together is because we had adjoining rooms with a common door.

I had no idea. I had never seen her on the floor. As a matter of fact I had never seen her other than the times I mentioned in my recollection. And I have never seen her since.

What is kind of strange is that for as much as I remember the events of that day I wouldn’t recognize her if she stood next to me at the registration desk at the Mark Hopkins. But, I’d be willing to bet Dan Sotelo would, he’s still the concierge there.

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

Part II - This is Your Captain Speaking - The Woman from Australia

Thought for the Day

Part II Continuation of: This is Your Captain Speaking

Flying on a commercial airliner provides you with a very measurable feeling of having no input on outcome.  All you are empowered to do is ride. You are going where the airplane is going. You will do whatever the airplane does. When your view begins with your level of competence as a pilot, you are happy the situation you are in is the way it is.  But, for some of us powerlessness is a most unattractive condition. Even the word powerlessness is unsettling. And any mention of your lack of training as a pilot is irrelevant.

The flight was so rough there was never any service of any kind. Bathroom trips were at your peril. We were flying directly into the jet stream. It was a very long trip. By the time we arrived I was exhausted. I went to the rental agency and got a car, then drove into town and went to my hotel.

There could not have been a better place to be than The Mark Hopkins. I had arranged earlier for accommodations to be provided for me whenever I was in the city. I had a special arrangement with them. They knew how to take care of a guest. Because of the frequency of my visits I had an excellent rate. The accommodations were spectacular at any price but for the rate I paid, they were ridiculous. There was a large room with a view of both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges. There was enough fruit to rival a small produce market. Nuts and snacks of all varieties abounded and there was a full bar, completely stocked with every premium liquor one could wish for. I put my things away and took a long shower hoping to wash off the incredibly negative day I had experienced to that point. After a towel off with luxurious Egyptian cotton towels I dressed and went downstairs to the lobby bar and sat with Max, the bartender to tell him about my morning.

I had not settled into my seat before Dan Sotelo, the concierge, was at my side inquiring if there was anything I needed. I asked about the theater options and he said that Camelot was at the Orpheum and Richard Burton had the lead as Arthur. Yes, I told him. If you can get me a seat I would be most grateful. He just looked at me and said, you may count on it sir. I didn’t even discuss seat location. I knew that was completely unnecessary. So the evening held the promise of a delightful diversion and I could decompress until then.

I started a conversation with Max. He and I were the only people in the bar except a woman at the far end of the bar who was using the house phone to make business calls. She was pretty quiet so it was almost as if she wasn’t there. Max was a diversion all by himself. He was a retired San Francisco cop who had seen and done about everything you could think of and a number of things you wouldn’t want to.

There were some union – management debates going on that had to do with the wait staff, bar staff and hotel support staff. Max was getting me up to speed on the points of friction when the woman at the far end of the bar came to our end and offered to buy me a drink. Her reason, she explained was to apologize for the disturbance she had caused by her telephone conversations. I thanked her and declined. I told her she had not been a disturbance at all.

I turned back to Max and she interrupted again by explaining that she was from Australia and had been all over the US and Europe to introduce a non alcoholic wine that her company produced. She went on to say she had been on the road for a week and with the time difference had found it difficult to sleep since she had to work with her company in Australia when she should have been sleeping.

She told Max to open a bottle of her wine and pour me a glass. She told us how they had developed a special process of  protecting and retaining the esters in the wine so that the flavor and aromas were unchanged from that which had alcohol in it. She asked how I liked it. I said it was OK. She wanted more feedback. I told her I wasn’t ready to sample and analyze her wine but would perhaps try it tomorrow and let Max know how I liked it. About that time a small group, about four people came in who were her friends. After a cocktail party greeting of air kisses, nods and touchless hugs they asked her to join them in one of the rooms of the hotel.

At that point she seemed to become a little agitated. Then she started to cry in a way that was far too severe to have anything to do with what had just happened. Her friends’ efforts to calm her seemed to create the opposite effect. Her crying was by then but a foundation for the histrionics of someone completely out of control. I looked at Max; he started wiping glasses and tried to blend in with the ferns. I slid off my seat and without delay removed myself from the bar.

To be continued….

©Herb Ratliff, August 24, 2012, All Rights Reserved

This is Your Captain Speaking

Thought for the Day

In my blog entry for February 23, 2012 I described an early morning flight to Chicago O'Hare that resulted in my commuter flight losing an engine over Lake Michigan and sliding onto a foam filled runway. That was only the beginning of that day and a surreal adventure in human behavior.

I can tell you now that my confidence in airline transportation was on the wane. I was frightened. The words of advice from the air traffic controller at the 1980 New Years Eve party echoed in my head. "Don't fly into O'Hare and don't fly on commuters." I had just done both and was paying the consequences.

My head was jacked up with adrenaline and the "fight or flight" in me was pushing for "flight" as in running as fast as could out of the airport. I considered renting a car and driving back to Flint. That would be the end of my new career. What was needed here was a large bucket of Bloody Marys. I had a couple of hours before my flight to San Francisco. I went to one of the many bars at the airport and ordered a Bloody Mary. I checked my tickets and noticed that the flight equipment was a DC-10. Wasn't that what crashed in May of 1979 that was the worst air disaster in history with over 270 people dead? 

"I'll have another." 

Frankly, I don't remember how many Bloody Marys’ I had while I waited. The urge to rent a car and run back home went away eventually. I reached a more mellow state of mind and when it was time to board I was ready to go. I'd had all the adventure I wanted for one day. I found my seat, stowed my carry on and took out a crossword puzzle to distract me for a while. The pre-flight instructions for what to do during emergencies seemed anticlimactic and I immersed myself in the world of scrambled word meanings. That felt like something I could control.

When we reached altitude and the captain began his welcome speech with a caveat regarding the removal of seat belts. My heart quickened only a bit. He went on to say the weather was a little unstable and we might experience some minor turbulence until we cleared the storm cell. I remembered a friend who was a management consultant. He traveled a great deal and told me that no one had ever died from turbulence. Exhale! Where the hell is the drink cart? 

The turbulence made its entrance. Even for an inexperienced traveler like I was it didn't seem too bad. It was uncomfortable but I attributed that to my lack of sophistication. The next event was akin to an extended elevator drop feeling. You know, the kind that leaves your stomach somewhere above your head. My hands tightened on the armrest. And this was only the beginning. When the overhead doors flew open and cargo began spilling out, I knew we were in for a ride and no matter how many Bloody Marys’ I had drunk it wasn't going to be enough. Then, the oxygen masks dropped and I began revisiting every spiritual connection I ever had. 

To be continued.....

©Herb Ratliff, August 23, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Try This

Thought for the Day

Welcome the morning

grasp it by the hand

as a long lost friend.

Embrace it

 and

 it’s promise

 of

 hope and renewal.

Drink in the day,

Sip and savor 

each 

moment.

Do not gulp away

innuendo, hint or happiness.

Gaze at it’s color

through the sunlight,

against the rose garden and

in front of the window.

Let not a drop escape.

Embrace the evening.

Surround yourself

with loved ones.

Listen

and

tell

and

hold

and share

the night.

Herb Ratliff, August 22, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Message From a Red Shouldered Hawk

He did not come gently,

He was angry.

There was no whine in his cry

He was emphatic.

This is your day,

Your choice,

Your way

Use it

Now.

Spread your wings as wide as you wish and soar and soar and soar away.

Or sit upon your throne

Holding your scepter

Waiting for

Legions

To

Wait

Upon

Your

Command.

Herb Ratliff, August 21, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Bliss Park Daredevil

Thought for the Day

How we perceive things plays such a huge role in our actions that follow. Seems a rather obvious statement and yet I can think of various times when what should have been clear was not and what I did while logical to me was completely out of sync with common sense.

We’ve had a few coolish mornings in the last few weeks and it feels good. Fall is a great time of year. Our young students have re entered the halls of learning. The summer gardens are shutting down production except for squash, pumpkin and okra here in Georgia. The hummingbirds have grown even more vigilant and territorial eating nectar, natural and man made with a voracity not seen before. They have a long trip to make soon. After the heavy, energy sapping heat of summer the coolness of fall is welcome and invigorating.

Every year when the seasons begin to change I am reminded of an incident that occurred when I was a youngster, recently endowed with a new Schwin bike which I had bought with my own funds. It took place at Bliss Park about four blocks from my house.

I rode into the park and saw a group of friends gathered around some upended picnic tables. A natural curiosity drew me to the attraction. I watched long enough to see the purpose of the rearranged tables. They had fashioned a kind of ramp from the tables in order to see how far they could get their bikes to fly in the air. The idea was to ride the bike as fast as they could to the ramp. Once they reached the ramp they would disembark the bike and let it freewheel off into the wild blue yonder.

The bikes never achieved what I thought was much of a flight and the reason was quite clear to me. As the riders approached the ramp they would slow the bike as they got off with such clumsy care. I immediately thought the way to achieve maximum flight was to ride as hard and fast as possible to the ramp, jump straight up off the bike without impeding its progress. When the area was sufficiently clear I announced my intentions and waved them clear of the ramp.

I made a large circle on my bike to achieve ideal distance from the target. I pedaled hard and fast to reach maximum speed, as I approached the ramp, I steeled my body for the jump and positioned my feet on the pedal for a spring into the air. At the ramp I threw myself into the air and watched my bike fly off into the air as I came crashing down on the picnic tables completely out of control. My focus was completely on the flight of the bike. What would happen to me after I left the vehicle never occurred to me. Ouch!

The Doctor called it a herringbone fracture and put my arm in a plaster of paris cast. I wore it for what seemed a lifetime and found all kinds of creative ways of scratching the itch. I gathered satisfaction from the distance the bike flew which was far greater than anything the others had achieved.

The weakness in planning while quite obvious never settled into my character with sufficient strength to help me avoid future catastrophes that planning would have helped me avoid. On the other hand, that kind of focus is quite useful for other activities. You know which kind I am sure.

Herb Ratliff, August 20, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Work in Progress

Thought for the Day

We are all a work in progress. Even the David was just a block of marble when Michaelangelo started. If I don't look like a work of art today just remember I'm not finished yet. There's a lot of work to be done before you can look at me and say, that's all he will ever be.

©Herb Ratliff, August 16, 2012, All Rights Reserved

H.A.L.T.

Thought for the Day

H.A.L.T. is a reminder to the type A aspects we all suffer from occasionally. What confounds and confuses most of us is not terribly complicated. It is "common sense" which we have leaned isn't very common. Here's what it reminds me to do.

H. If you are hungry eat something. You'd be amazed what not eating can make you do. It is easily fixed but a surprisingly frequent cause of seriously bad behavior. 

A. If you are angry pause. Anger needs to be released. Find a way to release it without injuring yourself or your property and apply the same standards to other people and their property. Easy peasy.

L. One is the loneliest number. If you are lonely call someone, visit a friend, help someone else. You are living in your head. Get out!

T. If you are tired, rest. Take a nap. Go to bed. Check your eyelids for light leaks. Rest, you are no good to yourself or anyone else if you are not rested. It literally can kill you. 

A University of Chicago study proved it, twice. It was done with mice and the subject was sleep deprivation. Fifty years ago when the study was done the first time, the mice died and it confused the researchers who felt they did not understand the cause of death.

Recently the same experiment was done again, same result. H.A.L.T. remember it, use it. In the parting words of Spock, "Live long and prosper."

Herb Ratliff, August 15, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Confrontation

Mornings Before School

Little girls respond with

the delayed look,

slowly, 

over their shoulder

and up

right into your eyes

with a hint of

disdain.

Boys begin with 

muscle tension,

the trace of a 

head shake

and

direct refusal

followed 

by a plea

for mercy 

or 

reason

to prevail.

In the end

both relent

but

there is no surrender

only

impatient delay.

©Herb Ratliff, August 14, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Fish Story ...conclusion

Thought for the Day

From yesterday's post....

I watched as it moved past the boat and on toward the back of the cove. When it went out of sight I still was staring at where it had been. As I sat there staring at the water something gradually became apparent to me. There was a path, for lack of a better term, where the fish had been. It was like a little path. Hmmmm. I looked at the other end of the boat. I stared at the water until I began to see little differences, yes, there it was, a little path was there too.

"Well, I'll be dammed."

I sat there staring at the path until I caught some movement in the water. Sure enough, there it was again. He was so damn casual I felt like asking him about the weather.

I think you've already figured out the hour I told "you know who" about isn't going to be accurate. I always seem to underestimate how long it will take to fish, and tell people things. Stop by tomorrow if you like and I'll try to finish this fish tale, true fish tale.
Conclusion:
I continued watching until he moved out of sight again. Slowly, I stood up to get a better view. I thought since the water was so clear I might be able to see where he was going. I steadied myself and scanned the area where I guessed he would be.

The cove was quite weedy which is why the fish liked it so much. A foot below the surface you could see a loose, fine weed a bit like the cellophane grass in an Easter basket. After my eyes adjusted to the distance I could see an oval track just as clearly as if I were at the Indy 500. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration but there was an oval path where the fish had been swimming. I could no longer see the fish but it was obvious he had been circling. I have fished for a long time. I have seen a lot of strange things. But this was something else again.

I watched the fish make a couple of circuits and then I had an idea. The kaboozi's were gone. I had to try something else. I decided I would try a plastic worm on a hook with a bobber. That way I could adjust the depth of the worm and watch to see how the fish reacted to the bait. I would also be able to wiggle the worm when I saw the fish approaching it. OK, that should work. So I rigged the line, tossed it in the path of the fish and waited.

It seemed to take longer for the fish to make the circuit with the bait in the water. After what seemed a very long time I decided he had been spooked. I was too close to the path. The action of putting the bobber and bait there was too disruptive. I was about to give up when he swam into view. He looked more wary than before. (They can too. A fish can look wary. They have to pay attention to their surroundings. Nature is a very stern teacher.)

I wiggled the worm a bit. He slowed and approached it but passed by without taking the bait. Crap! Maybe it will look better next time. I waited. I waited some more. Having a fish that big, that close doing things that predictable made catching him that much more important. Then I thought, maybe I could just net him. Nawww, that's no way to fish. So I waited.

I don't know how many passes that fish made with nary a nibble but I almost left many times. Finally when I was at my wits end he took the bait. Bam! He broke the line. It's true. I swear, he broke the line. Well, I thought, that's it. He'll never take that bait again. So I started to pull up the anchor and then, I relaxed my grip on the line and thought I'd give it one more shot. So this time I rigged the big rod and used a steel leader. I hooked the bobber into the swivel on the end of the leader, put it back in the water and waited.

To my great surprise he took the bait on the first pass. I set the hook hard. The response was explosive. He dove fast and deep making the line whine at a high pitch and the rod bend in half. He was heavy and full of fight. No fish I had ever caught there had been anywhere near that strong. I held the rod high and pulled against him trying to keep him from getting in the weeds on the bottom. He pulled back with a vengeance and then, the line snapped. Damn! I was devastated. That's it, I thought and began packing up my gear.

I retrieved all of my paraphernalia and put it in the tackle box. I cleaned the weeds from the net, wound the line back on the reels and reached for the anchor. I took one last, long look. About twenty five feet from the boat a red and white, round bobber floated along as if powered by an inboard motor.  The fish was still hooked. It may have been the first fish locator of its kind. I watched and laughed as the monster fish continued to make its way around the oval track with the bobber marking his progress.

And then, I realized the fish was mine. I could lie in wait and when the fish came by the boat I would reach out, grab the bobber and land the fish. I had only to move into position and lie still enough to keep the boat from rocking. There was nothing left to do but wait.

It was eerie watching a bobber moving along the water surface. The circuit was about a hundred feet in circumference. The pace was painfully slow. My heart was beating fast and I was focused on the bobber like a lioness on a springbok. As the bobber rounded the lower end of the oval the anticipation was gigantic. My muscles tensed in readiness. My left hand gripped the gunwale, my right hand was forming into a talon. I got it so quickly and pulled it into the boat so fast it seemed weightless. It was an evil looking fish, unlike anything I had ever encountered. But he was mine.

Normally I released fish after catching them. This one was going back. I put him in the live box and  hoisted anchor. It was time to head back. I wanted to ask a neighbor what this strange fellow was.

The fish turned out to be a dogfish or bowfin, amia calva. It's an unpopular predator that is known to lake fisherman but since the bulk of my fishing was in streams I had never seen one. The greeting I got from my wife was not pretty but quite understandable. I had been gone three and a half hours. It seemed like minutes to me. That's the way fishing is. It's hard to explain if you don't do it.

After that incident I didn't have much credibility estimating length of time when it involved fishing activities. It isn't that I did before but it got worse. I can still see the look on her face when I told her I released the fish. She wasn't exactly angry, it was more like she was really, really confused. She had a fundamental inability to understand that in a contest of wills destruction of the competitor is not necessary for a victory. Actually it's quite possible for a high stakes contest to end with both parties earning a satisfactory result. That's why I have always loved fly fishing for trout. We both win.

It is a true story. I promise... on my fishing gear.

©Herb Ratliff, August 10, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Fish Story

Thought For The Day

This is going to be hard to believe but I swear every word of it is true. Really, there is just no way anyone could make up a story like this. So I hope you'll give me the benefit of the doubt. Here goes.

It was one of those mid May, spring days in Michigan the Chamber of Commerce dreams about. The sky was that streaky, whitewashed blue, the wind a 2 - 3 mile an hour zephyr and the temperature about 68 degrees. The water was crystal clear. When you looked at the water from the cottage it looked like a sea of silver dollars glittering in the sun. When I saw it I knew it would be a slap in Mother Nature's face not to go fishing.

Yes, I knew I had promised to go to the hardware store to get the door closer and I would.  What difference would an hour make in the greater scheme of things? So I went into the closet and got a couple of spinning rods, a net, tackle box and hat. What else did I need? Everything else is in the tackle box. I should be good to go. As I started out of the house the mother of my children sent an icy breath my way making the hair on the nape of my neck stand erect. Then the chill slid down my spine as her words wrapped around me like a blizzard.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to go out for about an hour. Then I'll go to the hardware store."

"You said you would take care of the door, first thing."

"And I will, right after I get back in from a short, tiny, little .... Can you believe how beautiful it is? I'll be back in a little bit."

"Sure you will, what's a little bit?"

"An hour, I just have to... The bass are on their beds. This is perfect, absolutely perfect.  O K ?"

"One hour? You are standing here, in front of me, with rods and tackle, telling me that you will be back here, in this house, in one hour. Really?"

"Yes, I've gotta go."

I ran down to the boat, put in the gear and headed out toward Hidden Lake. On the way I stopped a couple of times and landed some two pound bass. I even caught a couple of Northern Pike. I was pretty anxious to get to Hidden Lake, a little cove, where I had a lot of luck catching three to five pound bass. I sat the rod down and started the boat motor. I headed south to my favorite spot.

The cove I thought of as my own was free of the local rabble so I dropped anchor and began preparing my rods for action. I've always had a lot of luck with a kaboozi. They just seem to be magnets for...

"What? A Kaboozi? You don't think I'm going to tell you what I really use do you? Please."

Bass love them. Pike do too. The problem was I only had two. That would have been fine but I use very light tackle and pretty fine mono. It makes the fishing a lot more fun but you do break a fair amount of line resulting in the loss of lures. Oh, well, it's what I had so I'll just make it work, I thought. On my first cast I got a strike, set the hook and lost the fish and the lure when the line broke. Darn! I put another rig on the line and also put a rig on the other rod which had a higher test line, just in case. When the bass are on their beds in the spring they are very protective and quite aggressive. There is usually pretty good action during that time.

I caught two more bass and a pike. I lost another rig on the lighter tackle and then I saw the strangest thing I had ever seen in that water. There was a very dark fish about thirty inches long swimming by the boat so nonchalantly, it looked like it was strolling on the Champs Elysee in Paris at midnight.

"What in... What the heck is that?"

I talk to the air when I am alone. It's harmless. I get in less trouble talking to the air than people. People can get an attitude. I was transfixed. I watched as it moved past the boat and on toward the back of the cove. When it went out of sight I still was staring at where it had been. As I sat there staring at the water something gradually became apparent to me. There was a path, for lack of a better term, where the fish had been. It was like a little path. Hmmmm. I looked at the other end of the boat. I stared at the water until I began to see little differences, yes, there it was, a little path was there too.

"Well, I'll be dammed."

I sat there staring at the path until I caught some movement in the water. Sure enough, there it was again. He was so damn casual I felt like asking him about the weather.

I think you've already figured out the hour I told "you know who" about isn't going to be accurate. I always seem to underestimate how long it will take to fish, and tell people things. Stop by tomorrow if you like and I'll try to finish this fish tale, true fish tale.

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

Daphne Koller

Thought For The Day

Meet Daphne Koller

http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html

I'm going to keep this very short and simple today.

I am going to tell you something that I learned from a very generous, creative person.

You can take online classes free, from Stanford, Duke, Princeton and over 100 universities.

https://www.coursera.org/

The YMCA Story ...Conclusion

Thought For The Day

The new YMCA Membership was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I felt like I had achieved some special status and indeed I had. I had been the recipient of another person's act of kindness. That event would color my life and lay in wait to teach me a life lesson when I was old enough to understand it.

The year that followed was filled with events and activities that eventually dimmed the gift and allowed it to come to rest in a space called "entitled". I always knew the membership was the result of someone's generosity but not with the brightness of that first day. That's natural, you say? Maybe so but if we think a gift is what we deserve perhaps we feel less inclined to return the favor. Then, the value of the gift is diminished rather than enhanced by living in our garden.

Debussy explained that music is the space between notes. And so, a space began a new era in my life.

When I went into Junior High, grades 7-9, there were more organized sports activities. Some were provided by the schools and others by city leagues. Basketball was a favorite city league activity but in school I became interested in track and field. It was during this period that I began to work in my fathers Shoe Repair Shop after school and sometimes on Saturday. That made a sporting life difficult at first and eventually eliminated it. In high school, there was a brief period of activity when I made the tennis team. After that I was back at work and never participated in organized sports again.

After high school I went to college. I went to BYU for my first year and the first semester of my second year. When I came back home I went to work at Saginaw Malleable Iron in Plant Engineering. It was a great job and I would learn more there than I could have in college. It would change my life in other ways and create some more "spaces" so there would be music in my life.

During the two plus years I worked at "Malleable" I did a lot of growing. And this is where we get back to the YMCA.

After I had been there for a year there was a United Way Fund Drive. The GM philosophy was to support the "Fair Share" concept of giving. I had serious objections to being forced to do that. I was already giving ten percent of my gross income to church. It was expected by the church, promoted by my parents and at the end of the year members were expected to go to a tithing settlement meeting with the bishop and promise they had "tithed", 10%. My feeling was that if I was giving that much to my church The United Way should be happy with whatever I deigned to give them. GM did not agree. I was told that working there was a privilege and my participation was mandatory.

I was twenty, knew pretty much everything and was as stubborn as stubborn gets. I found myself at loggerheads with GM management. That's not a good place to be. Fortunately I had a boss, Charley Luther, who was the toughest, smartest and gentlest man I would ever know. He took me aside and we had a little visit. He took the company line and I took the "me" line. Then he began itemizing the organizations the United Way supported and I must say I was impressed but I explained that my church provided for hapless members who were sick, disabled and temporarily out of sorts and wasn't what I was doing just as important as supporting the United Way?  His response was classic. He told me that what I was doing was the least I could do if I supported my church.  He said doing the least you can do is not the spirit of good will. Then he asked if there were any organizations I admired that my church didn't support financially.

After some posturing I admitted the YMCA was certainly a worthwhile organization. He said he did too and that the United Way supported the YMCA. Then he said that I might look upon my gift to the United Way as a gift to the Y. In my beleaguered state I said, but your gift is taken from your overall gift, you are asking me to make an additional gift. Then, he said he made an additional gift too. He donated five memberships that were to be given to deserving kids every year.

Well, that did it for me. I gave my "fair share".

Giving what you can to things you believe in is not measurable by normal accounting practices. When the heart and mind work in concert there is a resonance created that rivals any of the great symphonies. The gift to the giver is to be in that moment, in that music, at that time. That's kind of what love is, don't you think. When you give all you have, your riches are beyond measure.

©Herb Ratliff, August 7, 2012, All Rights Reserved

The Y M C A

Thought For The Day

One of my great pleasures growing up was going to the YMCA. It was within walking distance from my house. There I could play basketball, swim and run on an indoor track.

The YMCA building had been around for a long time. It seemed an ancient place but that in no way diminished its attraction to me. Trips to the "Y" were limited because there was a charge for use. That charge could be paid on a per visit basis or you could purchase a membership for the year. Both methods of payment were very reasonable. It seems to me a daily pass could be had for twenty five cents. I do not remember what an annual membership cost. A daily pass was the only method within my reach at the time.

When I went to the Y it was typically on a Saturday and it was for the whole day. It was there I became acquainted with the swimming pool as an attraction. My parents were not comfortable around water and their fear of the water was clearly transmitted to me. I did not allow that fear to move into my house though, I learned how to swim at the Y. That is not really an accurate statement, "I learned not to be petrified around the water" would more honestly represent the truth. The gym was available for open basketball as well as organized league activities. My first basketball team play was there. My age at the time was between 9 and 12.

One Saturday I went alone to spend the day. I have five sisters. Getting out of the house and going to a place with more than one bathroom was adequate motivation. The pool and the gym were over the top. When I got to the front desk the attendant was talking to someone so I had to wait a bit. When he finished he looked down at me and ask what I needed. I requested the day pass. His face changed expressions. He asked if I came here often. Yes, I told him. He asked my name and opened a drawer to examine some cards. After he found what he was looking for, he looked at it carefully and then at me. I, naturally, thought I had done something wrong.

The attendant left the immediate area for a couple of minutes. When he returned he said that I had a membership. I told him I did not. A soft smile began to appear on his face and he said that I did indeed have a membership. I was flabbergasted. How could this be? I began to explain the inaccuracy in detail to him and he raised his hand and said. "It is a gift." At that moment I was convinced I was the first person in my family to be a "member" of anything. I believe I grew a foot as I stood there. I'm not sure I have ever been happier or more grateful for anything in my life. I used that membership as much as time would allow and quietly thanked that attendant for years after. But there's more to this story. I'll tell you the rest tomorrow.

©Herb Ratliff, August 6, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Grapefruit, Lots of Grapefruit

Thought For The Day

I love Ruby Red Grapefruit. As a matter of plain fact I prefer Ruby Red Grapefruit juice to orange juice and I am a big fan of orange juice. The thing is, as Clint Eastwood put it so well in one of his Spaghetti Westerns, "A man's gotta know his limitations.

When I lived in Florida most of the inhabited space was on a strip of land that was fifteen miles wide from the beach to the everglades. There was mostly farmland beyond that or parks. From time to time I would venture out beyond civilization to see what was happening but most of the time we lived on that narrow band of land with everyone else.

One Sunday afternoon, Lindsay, my daughter, and I were suffering from a little case of "Cabin Fever". We considered a trip to Canada or San Francisco but since she had to be in school at 7:30 Monday morning we decided against it. Florida is flat. The highest points are the overpasses for the turnpike. You have to drive north about four hours before the topography changes significantly. So we decided to explore the farmlands to the west.

Canals, vast fields of crops varying according to the season from Green Peppers and Tomatoes to Strawberries and farther west Sugar Cane. In the area where we lived, West Palm Beach, there wasn't a lot of citrus. There were ornamental orange, grapefruit and lemon trees but not much in the way of commercial production. That is not to say there was none. A couple of places existed as tourist destinations and over sized fruit markets. They produced a pretty substantial crop. The fruit was transported by large trucks driven by daredevils and hot rodders. It was not a pleasant thing to be approached by a speeding load of fresh oranges or grapefruit. Sometimes the overloaded trucks, driven by drivers that might have been too, would lose a part of their load which would spill along the road.

I do not like waste. It just goes against my grain. When I see perfectly good fruit lying on the side of the road I just naturally feel I should take advantage of the offering. Lindsay thought so too. So when we came across an extraordinary cache of fresh Ruby Red Grapefruit we stopped and commenced to transfer it from the roadside to the interior of my somewhat aged Cadillac. Now, you wouldn't think from looking at a grapefruit that a few of them would take up much space. But as we gathered and transferred them, well, we filled the car and then the trunk. Sadly, we were disappointed to leave so many on the side of the road but we had done all we could.

There was barely enough room for Lindsay and I after we loaded up. We looked at each other with rather blank expressions and then started laughing over what we had done. When we finally got the bounty into the house we had to consider what we might do with them. I think we gave some away. We juiced a lot of them and froze the juice. We ate some of them. But we did not waste a single grapefruit. Not one.

A little footnote about the "Groves" near West Palm Beach. They are gone. I was there in February for a visit and intended to visit Knollwood Groves. It had been owned by the co stars of the Amos and Andy radio program. We loved going there was so much to see. They offered a little tour of the groves on a wagon pulled by a tractor right through the middle of the orange trees. When we returned we could see the juicing being done and then we went to the little store. There was a bakery there and they made the most delicious apple pie. It was sliced and kept whole, slid to one side and exposed the layers of the apple.

There were tables and chairs under a huge Banyan tree and it felt cool in it's shade. It's gone and so is the apple pie and a lot of other things. Like the words from a Beatles song, "Life is what happens while you are making other plans."

©Herb Ratliff, August 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved

'

Spotting Celebrities

Thought For The Day

Travel, especially air travel, carries with it an implicit expectation of encounters with celebrities. Perhaps it is a louder expectation if you are in and around Los Angeles but it is always there. Airports equal adventure.

For much of my life I was a passenger on an airplane. The flying started in 1980. I took a job with Citigroup which required me to spend every other week on the west coast. It would go something like this: Monday morning at seven I would board a commuter in Flint and fly to Chicago. At O'hare I would connect with a flight to San Francisco or Los Angeles, usually San Francisco. I had an arrangement with the Mark Hopkins Hotel for a room that allowed me to leave things there so I didn't have to carry them back and forth to Michigan.

Once I was located in San Francisco there was often travel from there to other cities: Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, OR, Seattle, WA and so on. It was a far cry from what I had been doing and stretched me in lots of ways. I liked what I was doing. It was interesting and exciting. The travel was a bonus and at the time it was fun. I always expected to see someone who was newsworthy but as you might guess rarely ever did.

Once in LA I saw Wilt Chamberlain while sitting in a seat next to Dinah Shore and across the aisle from John Garfield. That was fun because Dinah Shore was such a lady and very engaging. She had the most beautiful skin and soft brown eyes. She talked with me like we were old friends on a short flight between LA and San Francisco. But the most memorable encounter I had with celebrities was in Nashville.

I would see celebrities once in a while from a distance. I usually made no attempt to interact with them. But, when I saw Justin Wilson at the Delta information counter in Nashville and since I was going there myself it was just too much. He had made me laugh so hard, so many times I had to thank him for his funny stories. I promised myself to be brief and polite. Thirty minutes later I was laughing out loud and trying to catch my breath. In fact I had forgotten that I stopped to ask a question about the gate location. When I finally got around to asking the information attendant told me I had better go if I wanted to catch the plane.

I bolted from the desk, thanking Justin Wilson as I ran away. I was focused on the marquis when I knocked a man to the floor. I reached down to help him and saw Pat Boone all crumpled up and not a little bit annoyed. I apologized, brushed him off and ran to the gate. After all the miles I had flown and all of the dignitaries I thought I would see, most of it happened in a thirty minute span in Nashville while looking for a gate and trying to get there. But, that's not all.

About two weeks later I was in Orlando and forced to take a commuter from there to West Palm Beach. There was a terrible storm brewing that you often see during summer in Florida. A large bank of Cumulus Clouds black as night were on the edge of the airport. The flight had been delayed but the boarding crew seemed to think it would be a short wait until we were cleared to board.  I wasn't all that sure I wanted to board the plane anyway, but I was looking forward to getting home. I had been away for over a week.

We eventually were allowed to board with assurance the storm was out of range and we could fly safely. Mixed feelings emerged but I walked out on the tarmac toward the stairway set up to board "the little plane that could." As I reached for the handrail a body bumped into me and pushed me away from the stairs. When I looked at the perpetrator, it was none other than, you guessed it, Pat Boone. We went to our seats. We sat side by side in tiny seats on the crowded plane and he said, "Do I know you?"

©Herb Ratliff, August 2, 2012, All Rights Reserved

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVvIpFhBmqw